


Partnership is Build Upon Broken Boundaries

by mrsthessaly



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Deaf Character, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Smoking, a bit of everything, it's big, really loooong and slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 75,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsthessaly/pseuds/mrsthessaly
Summary: So Grady’s new name was Mr. Numbers. He didn't say, but Wrench could lip-read others talking to him.Apart from that brief moment on their first encounter, Wrench didn’t really think of him as Grady, as he didn’t think of himself as Wes in a long time. It was strange to have a figure of his past life there with him, it felt like that first seconds after you got shot, when you think if you keep yourself from looking at it the pain will not come. He knew Mr. Numbers felt the same way because of that awkward silence that had nothing to do with the incapability of having a spoken conversation.





	Partnership is Build Upon Broken Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [La asociación se basa en los límites rotos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145303) by [ImRescue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImRescue/pseuds/ImRescue)



> I know, I know, it's at least three years late for Wrenchers. Somehow, I managed to lose even the slighty awakening of this fandom with Wrench's apperence in the third season! Oh heck.  
> But, well, I only watched Fargo's first season a couple months ago and the result is obvious: I'm hooked. This ship is gold. I have read every piece of work on this site, went through several tags on tumblr and I'm still not satisfied.  
> I haven't written fanfiction in years, and I never wrote anything this big in English before, but if there's someone still out there as much addicted and unsatisfied with the amount of Wrenchers content (or the lack of it) as me, be my guest on this slow relationship development history.  
> Oh, there is A LOT of little references to my favorites works posted here. I'm listing it at the end for not spoiling the surprise.  
> .  
>  _This could have being a series, but I already wrote all of it, some parts are too small for a chapter and others work better if read in sequel, so yep, I'm posting this monster as an One-Shot. Be free to treat the parts as chapters if you like._

**Partnership is Build Upon Broken Boundaries**

_"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart,_  
_and never forget, that until the day God will deign to reveal the future to man,_  
_all human wisdom is contained in these two words:_  
_Wait and Hope"._

\- Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo 

* * *

 PART I

 _W-E-S and G-A-R-B-Y_  

* * *

 

      Been covered in blood was not strange to Wrench at that point, but it was new been covered in  _his own_ blood.

      Breathing became difficult while thrown half-lying, half-sitting at the shop storage ground, trying to keep awake between blackouts and the painful awakening of his ribs collapsing against the organs. White dots flew in front of his eyes and he knew he was going to die that night; it may as well not be night anymore. It was hard to tell how much time passed until the door opened again, Wrench’s eyes taking a few moments to adjust to light invading the dark room. Two men stood in the doorway, talking. The biggest of them he already knew: one of those who left him in that state. The other wore a black suit and had a full beard. He looked clean and important. The supplier's guy, if had to guess. The bearded one exchanged a few more words with the bigger thug and closed the door.

      The new dim figure stood in front of him and stared from beneath frowned brows. Wrench already knew he was going to die that night, and he was in pain, but oddly calm. There was no logical reason for his decision of taking a shot at trying that one more time, but, at that point, he also knew doomed men tended to do illogical things. Slowing removing his hands from the possible broken ribs, he signed the same two signs made for the last two people who had stared at him in a way that left no doubt he was going to die that night. Not that any of them understood, not that the new one would, and not that it would matter if he did.

_Wrong person._

      The bearded man seemed to find it funny. He smiled, white teeth shining underneath dark hair, and did the last thing imaginable: his hands curled into fists in front of his chest, approaching one another to rub slightly before he raised an index, which gets to his mouth and out, and finished pointing at Wrench with his thumb and little finger. It was a little off, but understandable.

_Everybody says that._

      Wrench’s head jumped up, eyes lighting with the new discovery. He could talk to that one, he really could, maybe he was not going to die, maybe he could explain. Cleaning the blood off his face, he continues to sign.  _I didn't take the money, but I know who did._

      Beard’s eyes went wide in the dark, the angry frown disappearing into arched brows. He said something, but if the skill of lip-reading wasn't already hard enough to handle, his mouth was pretty much hidden underneath that much facial hair. It looks almost like he was cursing. Some series of “no shit!” or "oh shoot!" - could have been both, could have been either - and something else impossible to figure out. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it a bit. The strange man who could talk in ASL raised his hands again and starts spelling.

_W-E-S._

      Wrench didn't know if that was a question, his face wasn't doing the right movements to it, but he knew that was his name. His real name. And how the hell that shitty beard and pompadour of a gangster even knew his name?

      He pointed at himself, as if trying to communicate  _it’s me_ , and then spelled something else along the lines of  _G-A-R-B-Y._  That couldn't be right. Wrench squeezed his eyes and tried to make any sense of the awful ASL spelling.

      He didn't try long before giving up. It didn't matter. And he tells him that again, because it was the important part for him and his partner staying alive, although now starting to doubt beard could really be at any help.  _I know who has the money._

      The man made the sign for struggle, which by context Wrench read as if he was struggling with communication. No shit. He smiled again, lips curling but seal shut, and raised one hand to spell one more word. Wrench's stomach twisted at the sight of that ancient memory back to hunt him on his final moments.  _F-A-R-G-O_.

      Grady. That was Grady.

      His mind was drawn from that reality for a moment as his pretty much only childhood friend put one hand on his hips and looked down at him.  Wrench had not seen, heard or think of Grady in about ten years. He was... different.

      There had always been some invisible distance between them Wrench could not label as a kid. For a while, he thought it was having a hearing friend, but as they grew older, that line deepened, and Wrench understood that it was not that at all. They could play baseball together all afternoon, but they were not slightest the same. There was a great pit of social crap between them, apparent as they parted and went to their homes, or in the way his parents took a certain arrogant pride on their son having a poor and  _disabled_  friend. And later, it was in the way the Indian always talked to him, never to Wrench, like he was some defective acquired piece he wished to return. Grady was not like them, at that time. He was too young to understand any of that. He only wanted someone to play baseball and watch violent cartoons with. And sometimes - Wrench suspects it was the key to their friendship - to  _get violent_  with, not telling him on his parents about all the fighting and anger and why his clothes were always ripping off (sometimes because of Wrench, most times the older kids). If this someone could even teach him how to talk shit to other people's faces without them knowing it with sign language, well, this person was best friend material. It was not like he had a choice on it when he took them. It was not like he made any effort to find Wrench later.

      About ten years ago, it was the first time in his life since his mother died Wrench was left all alone. They were fourteen. They were alone, but they were together, until they weren't anymore. Grady was a tiny and angry brat then, willing to kick and punch and just feel something. Now, he had Italian shoes and a tailored made black suit. It looks proper on him, as he finally became what he was always destined to be: better than Wrench. And now he would kill him or save his life.

      If he knew the boss was messing with Fargo, he would not have stayed there.

 _What?_ Grady asks, the “happened” implicit or he just forgot how to properly sign. The rust on his gestures is apparent when the next question is just  _Where_ and  _Money?_

      The pain was too much to sign something more than:

_V-I-C-A-R-S._

_Your partner had half of it. Don’t be stupid._  What he tried to say next was clumsy, although understandable as something close to: _nice to see you, not nice enough for me to screw my job. Tell me where the money is or you will wish they killed you before I arrived._

      Not friends anymore, then. Not a surprise. 

 _V-I-C-A-R-S,_ he spelled again.

      Grady looked down seriously at him, calm, and then angry.

_Dead. Dead do not steal._

      Shit. An explanation was required.

_Not dead. Not him. He and cousin planned to take the money, use me and partner as a scapegoat. They didn't know I can read lips. B-I-L-L can’t. They fooled him, but not me. I killed the cousin. He escaped. I was trying to get to my partner before your people. The burned body is the cousin, not V-I-C-A-R-S._

      Much of it got lost in the middle, so Wrench had to repeat a few times before Grady gets the hand of what he was saying. It was hard to sign with the pain of his broken ribs, and it was hard for Grady to understand something he hasn't seen in so long. When satisfied he got it, he put a hand behind his neck and cursed some more.

_Where’s my partner?_

      Grady looked at him and said nothing. Wrench asked again, although feeling like he already knew the answer.

      His hands went to show one palm down and other up, and then he shifts the positions two times. A moment ago, Wrench did not think something could hurt more than his broken ribs, but it did.

_Dead._

      So Grady’s new name was Mr. Numbers. He didn't say, but Wrench could lip-read others talking to him.

      He almost laughed to himself recalling a memory from about two months ago. That flash of a dialogue was the only thing helping him on reading _Mr. Numbers_ out of those men's mouths through the dark and blood. He didn't laugh, though, not because it wasn't funny, but because jokes are never that funny when you're the bottom of it.

      They took that new job when business got too messy in Denver and Bill judged it would be best for them to leave before it exploded, because, hell, with that jackass in charge, things _would_ explode. He told Wrench, one time, they called him Buffalo Bill because he had killed more men in Iowa than the original Buffalo Bill had killed actual buffalos, and when he got out of heads to drop, he went up on the map. Wrench told him it was bullshit, and he still thought Bill was too much of a nice guy to put on that pose, but he was older, experienced, a better teacher than his previous mentor and equally tended to always be right. A week after they packed their things and got on the road, they were meeting a contact who told them their old boss and half his payroll was dead. The new guy wanted some muscles on the road and was too desperate to care about the two of them working for the fallen king. Apparently, he wanted to recruit the remaining assets. Word on the streets was they were good drivers and that was all they needed to know. Two days later, they had their pickup parked at the far side of a gas station. Wrench was leaning against the hood, not even trying to look big, strong and menacing that time, but the reactions the old guy who smelled like eggs was giving him while trading a small notebook back and forth with Bill told him he was still scary enough. Somehow, the man continued to smell like eggs when Wrench beat his head to the ground so hard he dropped dead after the first blow, but Wrench kept hitting him until he could breathe even enough to get in the car and go after Bill. But the cousin seemed fine that afternoon, at the gas station, unable to plan an ambush on them. It took a whole hour for them to finish and the man was gone. Bill told Wrench he was going to meet with some of the new heads to talk logistics. Wrench got his pistol, but Bill stopped him, more aggressively than usual due to the discussion they had the day before, and told him he didn't need a hound on him this time. It was just a talk, he knew one of the guys, and while he was in the meeting, Wrench should stay at the motel and rest for tomorrow's drive. Wrench agreed. Bill was still mad and things were still weird between them, but neither could do the job alone, so they were stuck in that partnership. Instead of apologizing, Wrench asked who were the men. _V-I-C-A-R-S_ _, worked for him before, and some Mr. Numbers._   

      If Wrench had told him, that time, it was best for Bill not to go alone meet up with two dangerous people, that they still had to be professionals, that he was sorry, maybe he would still be alive now and Grady would still be dead.

      Grady got back after a while to translate Wrench’s accusations about their newer associated to the other men. They weren't that convinced. One of them hit him to the ground some more, metallic taste going down his throat as Mr. Numbers watched without a blink. Wrench wondered if Bill had died that way, coughing blood at someone’s shoes, trying not to choke to death until he finally did.

      When the other two left, Numbers stayed. He lit a cigarette.

      “You know, they only send me to talk to Buffalo Bill because of you". Wrench couldn't read the whole thing with Grady pacing around, the dark, his eyes swelling from the beating, but the other probably knew that. "Not because of _you_ being here, we didn't know that, but because Mr. Pin remembered I used to know how to talk to you. So I was driving here and thinking about the sign language you taught me, and thinking about you, and I haven't thought about you in, what? Seven, eight years? No no, more. Twelve? Isn't this...? Shit. Shit!" He taps the butt of the cigarette, teeth bared. "It doesn't matter. I gave the green light on hiring you two, so now I have to deal with this mess. Listen, I don't do messes, so we will clean this up, alright? This is not a bluff, Mr. Wrench, but I'm sure you already know that. Be smart. Just give us the money back and we can all be happy”. It was still difficult to read the lips on that bearded face, but he could understand the general idea and the fact that Grady now called him by the nickname. Not Wes, _Mr._   _Wrench_. As if this was enough to outline that wall back between them.

      But he never had the money and he didn’t have his partner anymore, so Wrench just stood quietly against the wall, trying to breathe without fainting through the pain. He knows how Fargo deals with this kind of things. He remembers. Fargo doesn't do bluff.

 _There’s a joke about deaf in the mob Bill told me,_  he signed after a while.

      “Go ahead”, Numbers said aloud.

_The mob likes to have deaf men handling delivers because they can’t overhear what they shouldn’t. One day, a bag of money disappears. They got the deaf guy and beat him up. They can’t understand him, so they go after an interpreter. The interpreter asks about the bag and the guy tells he had thrown it in the river while escaping the cops. Boss doesn't like the answer, so he pulls a gun and put it against his forehead. Says if he doesn’t tell him where the money is, he’s pulling the trigger. The interpreter repeats it. The deaf guy signs: ‘it is in a safe underneath a loose wood in my bedroom's floor, please don’t shoot me’. The interpreter turns to the boss and tells him: ‘he says you don’t have the balls to pull the trigger’._

      Numbers grins. Smoke went out his nostrils, making a gray poisonous cloud hover over his head. Wrench tried his best to keep signing still, and it was long, but he seems to get it. Well, at least someone was having a good time.

      “Are you telling me the money is at your place?”, he asked, still with spoken words.

      Wrench shook his head.

_Doesn’t matter what I say to you, you will kill me anyway._

      Numbers sat in silence after this. He finishes his cigarette, throw away the butt and leave.

      Wrench just lie down and wait.

      When Numbers comes back again, he makes a proposition.

 

      A rough hand shakes him awake from restless sleep. Wrench dreamed of his former partner, and the face seen when he opens his eyes belongs to his first one. Numbers shows a notepad saying  _get up, we got a lead on Vicars_ , so he does it with a nod. They've been looking for him for about two weeks now, in which Wrench was mainly concerned about recovering while locked in a tiny room with no windows, a handcuff on his wrist keeping him from pulling away from the almost inexistent mattress or the sheets that smelled like piss.

      Actually, Numbers was looking for Vicars. Wrench was somehow his prisoner.

      Besides the dubious doctor who path him up and put him to rest, Mr. Numbers was the only one who came and went. They did not talk much, partly because communication was still difficult, and partly because there was nothing to talk about. Once, Wrench asked him why he was helping. Numbers looked confused at his hands, which he thought was because he didn't understand the signs, but then he gave a dead smile and wrote something on the notepad. He showed it to Wrench.

_Not helping u, doing my job. That was a shit ton of $$$, Fargo wants it back. I’m killing u if lying, we’re killing Vicars if ur truth._

      That was as far as the conversation went.

 

_Tell him I’m going to make him suffer twice as much as my partner did. Tell him he’ll scream so loud even I will be able to hear it._

      Numbers stared at him as if Wrench was insane, eyes wide, searching for any indication of hesitance. There was none.

      “Alright”, he said before turning to Vicars and translating the statement.

      The man’s face turns white.

      It was a long and loud night, and it was a long and silent drive back.

 

      Apart from that brief moment on their first encounter, Wrench didn’t really think of him as Grady, as he didn’t think of himself as Wes in a long time. It was strange to have a figure of his past life there with him, it felt like that first seconds after you got shot, when you think if you keep yourself from looking at it the pain will not come. He knew Mr. Numbers felt the same way because of that awkward silence that had nothing to do with the incapability of having a spoken conversation. The silent was filled with the cold fear of the adrenaline leaving your body and if you look now, if you tried to say something, you would only manage to scream.

      So, it was unexpected that when they got inside the shitty flat, Wrench still covered in Vicars’ blood, Numbers took the notepad out of his pocket and wrote something like that.

_I’m sorry about your friend._

      Wrench just stared. He felt sorry too.

      Numbers wrote some more.

_That’s why I don’t do partner anymore._

      He lifted his shoulders, as if saying  _shit that happens,_  and left locking the door.

      Wrench lied down at the thin mattress, this time not in handcuffs, but sleep didn't came.

      By the morning, Numbers was back with a bag of clean clothes and a frown on his face under sunglasses. Although the deep frown, Wrench was getting used to an adult Grady having a calm and threatening presence. That morning was not like any other day. He was pissed. He looked at Wrench as if he was going to kill him with a glare. Something had changed. This time, he signed.

_Get up, we're moving._

      Wrench did get up, he did bath, he did put on the clothes he was given. They were a bit too short on the legs and too tight on the chest, but after sleeping in bloody clothes and piss smelling sheets, it was nice to have something clean to wear. They went downstairs, got into the car and Numbers started driving.

      It's the first time Wrench has come across his reflection in weeks. He is almost frightened by the man staring back at him through the rearview mirror until realizes that's supposed to be his face. Purple and greenish spots are still showing on the sore skin and his lip and eyebrow are cut. That is not his face. That face is older and meaner and he can't keep looking at it for long, so he looks at the driver instead.

      They don't talk, so Wrench just thinks. His captors didn't let him anywhere near a weapon this whole time, after all none of them was still alive in that business by being stupid. Let alone the road trip last night, that warm morning, inside that dirty yellowish Sedan, was the first time he could glimpse at a real escape plan. Both of them knew Wrench wouldn't make a move until they got to Vicars; not out of trust or some bullshit as honor among thieves, but because no man could outrun Fargo's Syndicate, and his only hope to keep breathing was counting on maybe, just maybe, they consider his depth paid at the end of it if Wrench got their money back. It's just the two of them now and their agreement of partnership came to an end with Vicars' head turning into a pulp under his hands - Wrench could still feel the bones breaking, the man's screams vibrating in the air, a distant stuffy sound of death he would deny to his grave he was crazy enough to hear.

      Wrench knew the syndicate wouldn't kill him until they had their quarter million dollars back, but they got the money now and he's just a loose end. It was never their style to let loose ends get away.

      Numbers' Glock was shining to him through his nice suit while he drove, that angry frown still burning. Maybe he could get it. Kill him. Dump the body and steal the car. Hide somewhere, lay low for a few months, look for a new job. He could take Numbers down on a fight for that gun, the strength to make him eat dirt already there ten years ago, when they were still kids, fighting to feel alive other than fighting to stay that way; fighting because if they don't, it's over. He knows he could, but he doesn't reach for it. He's wondering. Numbers could have shot him last night, or even in the flat. Why didn't he? What is the deal with the clean clothes? Where are they going?

      Or maybe he was just stalling. Maybe even now he can't bring himself to do it. But he doesn't want to go that way.

      Numbers' shoulders got stiff when Wrench reach for him, a hand going out of the wheel ready for the gun. He relaxed when Wrench just pokes at his arm to get his attention.

_Where are we going?_

      It was impossible to know what he was looking at, with the shades on, and so many seconds pass without an answer Wrench starts thinking he hadn't seen it or was ignoring him. But Numbers raised one hand from the wheel and starts spelling. When he is finished, Wrench turns to the road and don't make any more attempt to communicate. He knows what is happening.

 

      They're outside the Syndicate's building and Numbers is looking at him coming down the stairs with a blank face. Wrench didn't expect him to still be there, but truth be told, he didn't expect that evening to go anything like it went. He didn't even know what he expected, but it wasn't that. It wasn't being invited to the top floor, or entering the office he only saw fast glimpses through a small gap before, being watched by that man's - _Tripoli's -_ , empty eyes that hadn't change a thing from the last time or from his nightmares. It wasn't a job offer. But his partner is dead, he just killed his last boss, he never learned how to do anything else in his life and some time ago he had come to terms that he's like a shark. If he stops moving, he dies. He needs the job more than he would admit to anyone or to himself.

      Back to Fargo it is.

      He had promised he would never go back to that city, but the broken words are the only part of the last weeks that don't surprise Wrench at all. He also promised he had Bill's back, as he once promised Grady he was not going anywhere. He's not good at keeping promises.

      Wrench didn't hesitate before opening the door to the passenger's seat and going in the car. If he was still there, there must be a reason for it. It was starting to get dark, but Numbers still had his sunglasses on. They sit there for a few minutes, not looking or touching, just sinking in each other's presences. It felt strange, but not for the reasons Wrench thought it would be, not like it was in the previous weeks, when they were together because they had to. It felt strange now because it didn't. It felt strange because it was familiar.

      It is not like he didn't think of Mr. Numbers as Grady as much as he didn't think of himself as Wes, but he was trying hard not to.

      Some time passed until Mr. Numbers moved in the now dark car. He opened the glove compartment and took out Wrench's pistol, the Bren Ten he was packing when Vicars' men got to him. He was intrigued to see that again, but guess even Fargo don't want to waste good weaponry. He was even more intrigued by the little scar on Numbers' wrist, barely visible underneath the sleeve of his suit when he offered him the gun. Wes remembered that injury.

      The first time Grady got stabbed, they were thirteen. They thought any wound near the wrist would be deadly and exchanged a look of panic before Wes ran for help. Trying to say something, but not knowing if any coherent sound was coming out of his mouth was one of the things he hated the most about himself growing up. Some early member of what would become Fargo's Syndicate came after him to the alley and laughed his ass off when he saw the kid holding his hand like he just got shot in the chest. Wes was not crying, he was tough, even then, but he cried when the man ignored Grady and asked for the package. He didn't give a shit about the package, he wanted his friend to stop bleeding. Mr. Ballot had slapped him across the face and told him something about the job, moderation, composure or gut, he doesn't remember the words, just the feeling of what they have meant for him, the humiliation of caring. The old Mr. Ballot was still there, sitting at the heads table, nodding when they made the proposition for him to come back. Grady lived, then, although communication was shit for weeks, and Wes knew better than to show weaknesses in front of a wolf. 

      Wrench blinked at the gun offered to him, confused by it and the movements of his lips saying something aloud. He didn't catch much of it, and decides to stop trying to or it would become a habit.Lip-reading is hard for him and he knows Numbers can sign, so just sign it already.

      Numbers rolled his eyes and made an attempt to move his hands. _D-E-L-I-V-E-R-Y. Leaving now. Work._

      Then it hit him. Fargo was partnering them both.

 

 

* * *

PART II

_You have to love something before you can hate it_

* * *

 

      The pager on his jacket pocket buzzed whenever they got a new job. He doesn't have to look to know it's Mr. Numbers.

      Wrench never had something that expensive and unnecessary before the Syndicate gave him the piece of alien technology. At age twenty-six, many things in his life made him feel older, but trying to figure out how to use that thing aged his brain at least fifty years. Numbers helped him with the basics on a boring night at the back of an abandoned factory, a kid's backpack full of coke and some Mossbergs wrapped in old newspapers inside tent bags between them. They were waiting for the other party to arrive from South Dakota with the money. Numbers didn't seem much more enthusiastic about the communication system, or it could be that he just wasn't that enthusiastic about talking to him in general. All exchanged messages were almost an exact copy of one another: date, hour, place. Wrench never replied, but was always there.

      His face was getting better, but it was still hard to breathe when he lied on his own bed at night. It had nothing to do with the cracked ribs, although he wished it was that simple.

      Work didn't call often. Sometimes only twice a month, sometimes two or three jobs in a row, and it was usually a short drive to what they came back in a day or two. Numbers picked him up at his flat (not the one where he was being held, but his real one, which was still pretty shitty, but at least hadn’t piss smelling sheets) and never got inside the building. He does the briefing in the car. He explains what he needs Wrench to do, most times just stay there looking big and scary. He drives. There is no killing involved at this first easy jobs, mostly intimidation and bag trades, eventually someone screwing up and needing help to clean the scene or hide a body. They are not drivers, they are not hitmen, they are not bookers, they are factotum. Wrench feels like he is being tested, but maybe they both are. They don't trust him yet or his pager would have more contacts on it other than only his partner's. If they trusted him, he wouldn't even have a partner.

      The first bigger jobs had bigger payments, but asked for more than just crossing his arms behind Numbers' back and looking like someone you don't want to mess with, so they went messy. They barely got hurt more times than it would be considered prudent; the prudent one, by consensus, was none. Numbers attested before he didn't do messes, and although he wasn't one to lose his temper, being the calm and smiling part of that duo, when they finished, he would glare at Wrench for minutes inside the dark car. He clenched his teeth. His eyes were angry and frustrated and, jeez, Wrench could swear sometimes he looked _disappointed._ The hands moved a moment later, threatening and complaining in a series of almost incomprehensible gestures, too angry to care for writing, and Wrench too pissed to teach him better. Then he would drop him off at his flat, give him the middle finger and drive for whatever hellhole he lived in.

      Sometimes, this times, Wrench just wanted to kill that cocky son of a bitch. He wanted to tear his expensive clothes and use them to put him on fire. He wanted to break his fingers when he did wrong signs in front of his face because he knew better, he _should_ know better, he was better before. Wrench did not know how they used to be friends, he kept forgetting it, he did not know how much time they would manage to survive together that way, and he misses Bill.

      At the end of every job, he wonders if he should leave. Every time his pager buzzes, he wonders why he stays.

      He knows why.

      Wrench observes quietly the places they go before the assignment and makes himself learn somethings, as how to deal with the arsenal guy, how to set a drop out meeting, who to call in case of police threats, where to go in Fargo to get the payment after they finish and to always count it (maybe the last one isn't standard, maybe that's why they call him _Mr._   _Numbers_ ). Things are a lot different now, more organized, professional, and Wrench had been gone for too long. It takes a few months for him to click back in.

      A trade went bad about the fourth month. It was the first time since Numbers was stabbed in the leg at another trade they were given something that big. The cabin was cold and three men stared at them. It should be two. Wrench didn't like it, but the frown on Numbers' face showed he liked it even less. He was focused, watching everything with double attention, determinate to not screw things up, to read his partner's body posture and not to compare their dynamic to what he had with Bill. He is not Bill. He is not Grady, either. He is a new man and their partnership is far from flawless, but they had to try. This is not the kind of job you get a dismissal letter for not being able to accomplish, this is the kind of job that fires you with a bullet between the eyes.

      Because he was watching, Wrench was the first one to notice something was off. He tapped Numbers' shoulder and finger-spelled for him.  _N-O-T-O-U-R-G-U-Y._ His frown vanished into wide eyes. The rest, as usual to them, was hell.

      Most people on that line of work would have left the partner and saved their own asses first, but considering it while standing at a puddle of blood in that cold cabin, watching his breath making webs in front of his face at a faster pace than he would acknowledge and turning slowly to look at Numbers body fallen into an uncomfortable position, Wrench just couldn't. He told himself he wasn't ready to lose another partner that year. There was blood on his hair and face and beard and Wrench stared until he could see a thin warm line coming out of Numbers' hooked nose and split lips. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and stepped over the bodies of the two men.

      The third escaped. One lost bullet crashed their car's fuel tank and the nearest city was a thirty minutes drive away. The sure thing was the runaway would come back, probably with a crew. Part of the oxi was still in a bag on the floor and Wrench lifted it on his shoulder, patched the bodies for guns, money and their coats. Wrench wasn't hurt, but couldn't go to the road with Numbers in that state. The only plan by now was getting out of there, so he kneeled to Numbers' side and lifted him up to throw his body over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Numbers had fainted immediately after shooting first and being hit on the head with a crowbar later.

      The shadows were long when he found another cabin in the woods. It looked abandoned; no heat, no wood, no food, not even a mattress on the bed. But it would have to do. Wrench laid his partner on a pile of old torn sheets and one of the dead thug's coat and sat on the only chair that seemed firm enough to handle his weight. He scratched his forehead and let himself sigh. Why he was so hesitant in doing the next part was beyond him.

      It took ten minutes to manage to get up and walk to where Numbers was, still unconscious. As fast as he could, Wrench touched him up and down, looking for his phone, pager or anything that could be used to call for help. He found both, phone and pager, along with a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a hunting knife, his Glock, a Sig Sauer (and he just had smile to that; all the attitude and the man had a taste for women's handguns) a wallet with driver's license and ID in the name of Jerry Menuek in which he frowned at the camera with his face blue were the beard had being shaved and a thick mustache over the upper lip, some cash, his notepad full of old and short conversations they had, a pen.

      The only number on his pager was Wrench's one. Of course. Wrench sat back down and went through his cellphone agenda to look for someone he could send their location to. All the names were codes, but Wrench met one of the syndicate's doctors weeks ago, in the incident with the stabbing, so he was able to identify her codename in there. _Mrs._   _Needle_. He did what he had to do and set Numbers' things aside. All that was left for him was waiting. Needle answered in a couple minutes saying she was arriving by morning. Wrench sighed a second time. That was not good. Hits to the head could be complicated and the fact that his partner had not yet opened his eyes was starting to make him worried. He got closer to see if Numbers was breathing. He was. Wrench striped off his top layer and used it as a blanket to warm up Numbers shaking figure. Not many seconds later, it was rubbed on his face that he wasn't shaking because of the cold. It was a convulsion.

      Numbers was in a bad shape all night, delusional, talking in that thin place between sleeping and unconscious. Wrench couldn't bring himself to sleep. The first time Numbers was awake, he looked at Wrench as if he didn't recognize his face. Even knowing it was pointless, Wrench signed a few questions to him, but he closed his eyes and was gone again. The second time he was awake, he did recognize him, and Wrench could read a single word coming out of his mouth over and over again.  _Sorry, sorry, sorry_. He cried a tearless painful sob, maybe because of the concussion, maybe because of the pain or cold, maybe because of before. Wrench was sure Numbers was going to die before the sun came up, and he didn't know what to do or how to feel, so he cleaned the blood of his hair and face, stared at him until the convulsions stopped and waited. One time, he called his name. It took him a moment to understand, but once he did, Wrench pulled away like it had burned him.

      He got the cigarettes and the lighter and went outside. Couldn't stay there. Couldn't watch him die with that old name on his mouth. Couldn't deal with how much he hated what that man was doing to him. He remembered something out of a crappy novel he read a while ago, about having to love something before you could hate it, and he cursed himself for remembering it now. His hands were shaking and he tried four times before being able to light the cigarette on. It tasted menthol, which he hated, but didn't care. He hated more how cold it was without his thicker jacket, he hated more the way he was looking at the oxi all night and it was so hard to stop himself on doing something stupid because one day, nine years ago, the ghost of Grady leaving him was fresh and the only way he found to feel less alone was shutting it up with whatever drug he could trade a blowjob for. He hated more staying for that, for him, a man he didn't even know anymore, that he had carried him like an idiot when he should have let him die alone. He deserved it. He had abandoned him first. He broke them. Wrench could still leave.

      Hiding from the wolves' judgment, he stood outside until his breathing returned to normal and his eyes were dry, so went back in.

      Numbers slept the rest of the night. The doctor came in the morning. He lived, as he always does.

      They didn't talk about his delirious break down; maybe he couldn't remember, but Wrench thinks he does.

 

      Somewhere around the middle of the year, they picked up a rhythm. Coming back alive and with results is all the syndicate needs to start sliding them jobs that pay better. Wrench could use some bigger payments.

 _The drive is long this time_ , Numbers signed one night, in the line for a drive-thru two blocks from Wrench's flat. His ASL was getting better and he didn't limp anymore from the knife that went in his thigh.  _Can you drive? Are deaf people allowed to have a drive?_

      He probably meant driver’s license. Wrench gave him a shocked look.

_I used to do delivery. You already know that. Do you think I did it on a bike?_

      “Oh shit, yes, you're right”, he responds as if he doesn’t know or doesn’t care at how offensive that was. Probably the last one. He signs again.  _We are taking turns driving. The G-I-R-L gets there before noon. We spook, watch, got it, kill._

 _There is a girl?_ Wrench shows his palms, his expression letting clear it meant a _what the fuck?!_ He elaborated.  _I won't do a kid._

      “…Shit”. Numbers groan, frustrated. He reaches for the glove compartment and takes out a book. Wrench glanced at the cover, it’s a  _Learning American Sign Language_ , and bite away a smile that passes unnoticed to his partner as he flips the pages of the book. Wrench suspected he was practicing in their spare time, and kind of made sense that he often confused spelling words if he was using the default pages on that kind of cheap stuff. It was a weird quirk, but he could see how it worked. “Ok, I got it now”, Numbers said before signing.  _T-H-E-G-O-A-L-I-S-T-O-G-E-T-T-H-E-R-E-A-T-N-O-O-N._

 _You could have written it, it would be faster than you giving me all those letters like,_ and he repeats what the other has done, but even slower, to get his point across.

 _Fuck you._ He was quite good at multiple variations of that by now too.  _I’m trying._

      Wrench put on his scowl and replied nothing. Well, that was true, he was trying, which is already more than most people do. Numbers got their food and drove them off. He puts the straw on the cup and drank his tea, the burgers on the back seat saved for later, when Wrench usually gets hungry on the road. They picked that habit after numerous fights over the amount of time Wrench asked to stop to eat. He said he was a big man. Numbers rolled his eyes so hard he was sure one day the black dots weren't coming back down.

      Wrench touched the other man’s shoulder to get his attention, and when Numbers looked irritated at him, he showed the signs for the last sentence he had spelled. His expression softened and he put the cup down, repeating the gestures a few times until satisfied. Wrench touched his own lips with one hand’s fingers and got them down on the other hand.  _Good._

      They drove quietly for a few minutes until he shook Numbers' shoulder again.

_You know I can teach you if you want. I have done it before._

      Numbers’ knuckles began to turn white on the wheel and Wrench tenses. They never mentioned _before,_  that was one of the many unspoken rules. The air inside the car grows dense and thick and there is no need for an answer after that reaction.

      Wrench crossed arms and looked back at the road. It wasn't like he wanted to do it, but the wrong signs, the awful spelling, the weird phrases he put together in English order and the notepad were getting old and annoying. Communication was important. Almost five months and he expected that part of their interaction to be better by now. He expected them to communicate by now. He shouldn't expect anything.

      They were leaving the city when he felt a poke in his arm. Numbers' face was blank when he took one hand off the wheel to move it in a sloppy  _fine, we can do that again._

 

* * *

PART III

_Do cracks in walls indicate a structural problem?_

* * *

 

      Stakeouts were always boring. Always. Hours looking at someone watching TV, picking on their noses or even worse, looking at nothing at all, just a quiet house, waiting for something to happen. The stakeouts from their first and fast jobs were boring, but short. The new ones were boring and endless. They didn’t talk. It was still uncomfortable being at each other presence, like if some family member sneak in at the lowest possible moment of your life. It was embarrassing, hurtful and brings up a life none of them had anymore.

      At that line of work, people knowing something about you more than that you could kill them without hesitation was bad for business, so the silence was understandable. They already knew too much, wasn't smart sharing more information.

      As jobs grew longer, sometimes Numbers would pick up the ASL book from the glove compartment and try something with Wrench. However, he always lost interest fast and the silence was back. Wrench build the habit of reading between shifts in stakeouts like that one, but he had forgotten to bring any book with him and the nothingness was driving him insane.

_I’m going to the library down the street._

      Numbers was pretty much sleeping with his eyes open and jumped a bit when Wrench shook his shoulder.

_Do what?_

_What do you think I will do at a library, S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K?_

_You don’t have_   _a_ , and he just made-up a silly sign for card. He did that often and it was beyond frustrating, Wrench felt like they were playing charades.  _You’ll just sit there and leave me alone? The target may come._

_I’ll get one and bring it here. We put back before leaving town._

_Are you going to S-H-O-P-L-I-F-T a library?_

_That’s where you choose to draw the line?_

      He grins and looks away, although looking a little annoyed by the conversation.

 _You can sign for R-O-B-B-E-R-Y._  Wrench showed him the sign when his partner chooses to look back at him. Numbers repeated it.

_Fine. Go. Bring me V-A-N-I-L-L-A-T-E-A on your way back._

      Wrench made a movement with his hand to the temper and back, as if rearranging his hair. Numbers repeated the gesture on his own, as he always did when just learned a new word from their short conversations. He took the learning seriously, to the other relief. That must have meant vanilla tea, right? When Wrench gave him a little half smile in response, Numbers catchs something wrong in the air. His partner _never_ smiles. The man seemed to be always angry about something - at Numbers, usually -, with one eyebrow down and other up, lips squeezed like he's some fucking Clint Eastwood impersonator without the hat and cigar. It was absurd they would have a sign for something that specific.

 _You’re messing with me._ His statement makes Wrench put a hand to his mouth to cover the smile getting bigger.  _What does it mean?_

      He took his wallet and went out of the car before leaning in for answering:

_F-A-G._

      Numbers face turns red with anger and he said something aloud Wrench didn't stay to read.

      Wrench did get his vanilla tea, a coffee for himself and some snacks. The library part was easy - he does have a vast experience with shoplifting -, but the cashier from the store was a real bitch. He almost didn’t get it anymore, but Numbers would be unbearable if showed there empty-handed, and the fag thing really got him pettish enough.

      It's an everyday exercise to police himself into not getting too comfortable, always signing something stupid when familiarity sinks in. It's just that, sometimes, it's hard for him to look to his side and act like he doesn't recognize the familiar quirks of Grady's hands on Mr. Numbers' bloody ones. That hands, apart from his mother and school's interpreter, were the only ones talking to him through all his childhood, when he used to thought nothing could be worse than the life he had, but he would give anything to have that back when shit got real. He tries to push it away, don't look too much at him, embraces who he is now. The memories are not a good thing. He is not Wes anymore.

      The man Grady turned into was annoying. He had this nose-up way to always ask for his sandwich with all toppings aside, so he could put it together in the  _right order_ , the endless time spend on the bathroom fixing his hair, and the tailor-made suits that don’t clean blood well, so Wrench had too watch his hands fly for hours, complaining, whenever they had to carry a body. But if he was remembering well, he had always been really clean. You could eat out of his house’s floor when they were kids. Maybe he was still a rich kid inside, the taste for good expensive stuff carried along even when the game changed. Maybe that was the only thing he carried from the life they could have had.

      Wrench knew his own path, how  _he_  got there, and nobody would be surprised to see that mute brat hurting and killing people for a living. His father did it before him. But, sometimes, when he forgets or forgives, he can't help but feel sorry for how Grady got there. His family had a little money, structure, a plan for their kids. Grady would go to college, work at his father firm, have a wife and two kids, maybe a big goofy dog. He would outgrow the anger eventually, that itchy inside that made him put his fists high and punch, kick and bite so hard even Wes got scared of him, sometimes. They would come for him. Not to Wes, but to him. They would save him. For some reason, they never did.

      As much as he tried to push his curiosity below the surface, he stills wanted to ask, but there were no openings with him, so he didn’t. It would be dangerous, stupid and non-job related. Maybe it was best not knowing. It's safer not to know.

      Of course, the attitude and the stupid looks could be that whole mob thing going over his head.

      When Wrench got to the car, Numbers was outside smoking a cigarette. His suit jacket was off and the blue shirt with rolled sleeves showed some faded tattoos. He looked like what some movie director would dress up an actor for the part of a gangster. Nothing subtle. He noticed Wrench coming in his direction and tapped one finger against the wrist several times.  _You take long._

      Before answering, he handles the drink.  _The cashier didn’t have a pen so I could order your sissy drink._

      Even not knowing what the sign for  _sissy_  was, he assumed the one his partner did was an insult anyway. Numbers pinch the tip of his nose and sighs. He considers if it is worth to argue now. Whatever, they don't have time for it.

_The guy is in the trunk._

      Wrench almost dropped his coffee signing an exasperate  _WHAT?!_

_He showed when you were out, so I act. It’s fine, it wasn’t hard._

_You could’ve gotten hurt._

      Numbers laughs, his teeth are too white and big under the dark hair.  _I did this alone long before you show up. Relax._

      There were a lot of things Wrench wanted to say to him, about how that was a shitty excuse, that they were partners and had to have each other’s backs, that he didn’t trust him or took him seriously and he couldn’t work with someone who does whatever he wants whenever he wants. But then Numbers took a sip at his tea and did a disgusted face.

      "What the-?!" He throws the cup at the garbage can on his side and turns to Wrench. _Did you put M-I-L-K in my T-E-A?_

_I thought you liked it._

_What? How so? Do you ever saw me putting M-I-L-K in my T-E-A?_

_You always asked your mother to do it._

      The exact moment when Numbers lost it grows in front of his eyes almost like a slow-motion movie. It was surprise at first, like he could swear he read it wrong, but then he got mad beyond any reason, mad like pulling his gun out and shooting Wrench in the face right there, right now. His eyes went wide and his nostrils could fit a golf ball each. By instinct, Wrench took a step backward, getting away from reach. It couldn’t be hard to take him down on a fight, but he really didn't want to wrestle in the middle of the street, so went to do the next best thing and rubbed one fist to the chest for a sincere  _sorry._

      It was precisely because of things like that they did not talk much. Every exchange of words is like a minefield. The worst part isn't even the explosion, but the cracks left behind.

      As sudden as he got mad, Numbers sighed, covered his face with one hand and dropped it to show he wasn’t mad anymore. He looked tired, older, and for a moment he looked just like Grady at the same time as he looked like a whole different person. Another sigh and a headshake were all he gave before going in the car _._ Wrench realized he resembled his older brother a lot, but he wasn't going to say that.

      As soon as his partner joined him, Numbers starts the engine. He turns to Wrench. The frown is so deep it must give him headaches.

_My mom's T-E-A tasted like feet, that's why I asked for M-I-L-K in it._

      Wrench couldn’t help but smile - because he does like to smile, but there aren't many reasons to do so lately. He showed him the signs for tea and milk. Numbers repeated it, nodded, and put both hands back on the wheel.

      “Fucking milk on a vanilla tea”, he said shaking his head.

      Somehow that seemed like a good reason.

 

* * *

PART IV

_Got to be sure_

* * *

 

      A dealer from Fargo's territory got shot. They wouldn't even bother on it, these things happened all the time and it was not on their obligation to interfere, but the distributor called saying they couldn't make the full payment on time because some money vanished in the incident. Fargo didn't give a shit about dealers, but they give tons of shit about their money. Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers were working together for about seven months and the “find out who did it and exterminate” types of jobs were some rare things that paid really good money. It was their first big arguing.

      Numbers was sure they got the right guy, all the evidence pointed at him. Some lower scum with a forehead tattoo and junkie's teeth. It was almost a favor to society to put an end to his life. But Wrench was not that sure. Numbers just wanted to go home, they were at that crappy motel for a whole week already, he needed a hot bath, his own bed, the job budget they had was getting to an end, and he was definitely  _not_  going to spend his own money for the Syndicate. Wrench punched the table so hard all the things upon it were thrown into the air. It must have been loud too, because Numbers blinked and stepped back.

_Don’t be so fucking Jew on me!_

      He always had trouble reading Wrench's gestures when they were too fast, so it took him some seconds of blinking to put the message together. The bashful expression on his face brought by the sudden violence of his partner's hands went away to give space to his own wrath.

_Are you really pulling this R-A-C-I-S-T card, asshole? Be O-R-I-G-I-N-A-L!_

_Is this how you want to play? Really?_

_I’m going to cut you open!_

_I want to see you try!_

_Don't you tempt me, F-A-R-G-O would find your body with your head shoved up your ass._ His signs could get creative and unorthodox when he was mad. Wrench would have laughed at the way he phrased it if he wasn't that close to punching him in the face.

_So all the evidence you have is that you want to go home?_

      Numbers was talking along his signing when he replied; the hastiness felt like screaming.  _THE. MONEY. WAS. IN. HIS. HOUSE._

_That doesn’t mean anything._

_HOW COME IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING?! IT MEANS EVERYTHING. HE IS G-U-I-L-T-Y!_

_B-I-L-L WASN’T._

      The yelling suddenly stops.

      It wasn’t much of a yelling, but loud hands slapping, eventual curses from Numbers and the furious noises Wrench made without realizing how high it sounded. He has always been a perfect model of silent, too careful not to make himself do any sounds, so when his breath became rash and heavy enough to be heard along with a groan, it meant he was really mad. It was like going against a bull.

      He regrets signing it the moment angry eyes turns into condescending ones. Wrench didn't need that crap. Not now, not ever and definitely not from Numbers. He took his jacket and left the motel room.

      They didn't talk about it later, but they do investigate some more. Turns out the guy was guilty after all.

 

      A couple jobs after they shot the guy with a forehead tattoo who pissed himself right in Numbers' shoes when he touched his face to his right to confess, Wrench was filling in the thank in one of those roads that go to everywhere and is nowhere at the same time. This particular job had been pointless and both of them were sure they weren't going to get paid for anything but gas.

      After driving for twelve hours, getting Mr. Jergen confirm Fargo wasn't going to give them shit for their time didn't make wonders for the general mood. Wrench parked the car (a black and red Ford Granada with stains all over the leather interior, hard on the gear, and if Numbers cringe was accurate, it made and annoying noise when Wrench was driving anything over 50kph, so he had do drive on that or slower, so the drive was awful longer than it should be, so he was already beyond pissed even before they found out the idiot shot himself on his acid trip and there was no target to hunt) and got out to lean on the open door. It was getting chilly there and the sun was coming down in an orange sky.

      Numbers was pacing in the small cabin and apparently screaming at the payphone for ten minutes before he finally gave up or had his line cut. He smashed the thing back in the hook with such force Wrench could see the glass shaking. No payment for the gas, then.

      He was already counting bills out of his wallet when his partner dragged himself back.

      They didn't have a single good paying job for a while now and Wrench was getting out of money fast. The wave of good work coming had got him too cocky, and too cocky meant stupid. He should know by now peaceful times came eventually and the killing would dry out. Other stuff just didn't pay as good, and Wrench really tried not to pull that string that would raise the curtain on his need to things to go bad and dangerous for him to be able to eat. That happened before, even with Bill, but guess he didn't know it could happen with an operation as big as Fargo. He hadn't worked for something as big as Fargo since he was their errand boy.

      He's thinking he shouldn't have fixed the radiator. It was too expensive. Wrench could deal with the cold, but he couldn't deal with the hunger. He was considering freelancing again, but didn't know how Fargo or Numbers were going to react to it, or if the old contacts he had with Bill would be willing to take him alone. He could do the other thing, but he really didn't want to. Too old for that now, anyway. The mere thought of going back to that made his stomach ill and he cursed, disgusted with himself.

      Wrench smashed the dollar bills in his hand before giving it to Numbers, who was leaning in the car by his side, smoking a cigarette and murmuring threats under his breath. He looked at the couple twenties Wrench was giving him like he didn't understand what the green pieces of paper were, and then back to his face. He took a long drag of the menthol cigarette and tilt his head left before letting the smoke out, in a way the wind wouldn't haul it back to his partner's side.

 _What?_  He gestures with only one hand, then points at the money.

_My share._

_What?_ He asks again. Wrench doesn't know if he is trying to be funny, but the attitude is starting to get annoying.

_If we don't get paid, I give you my share of the spends._

      Since the beginning, Numbers always paid for everything on the road; the food, water bottles, gas, motel rooms they sometimes shared when the thought of sleeping in the car again was enough to make their backs ache. He always kept the receives, so Wrench assumed Fargo would compensate for it once Numbers disappeared into Mr. Carlyle office and let him sit in the waiting room or, more often, in the car. As none of the assets were paid in the building, the only reason for the meetings Wrench could think of was to report and delivery receipts. But if there is no payment this time, it was only fair Wrench gave him what he owes.

      Numbers got up and put the cigarette out with his shoe. It didn't look like the kind of shoe someone with money problems would wear.

 _Keep it._ His mouth is a thin line and his eyes are dead when he shrugs, a hand going to open the door to the back seat. Wrench raising an arm stopped him in the middle of it.

_Why?_

      He shrugs again and doesn't answer, but doesn't open the door either.

      Wrench squeezed his eyes, one eyebrow up and other down, in that scowl Numbers always find it to make him look older and meaner. Maybe that's the point. He was watching him closely, wondering why a man who just spent the last hours screaming at his cellphone - and then at a payphone, when his batteries run out - for the sake of getting his damn money would turn Wrench's down. Numbers met his eyes at the same level, accepting the blinking game challenge with an angry frown. When he looked away, Wrench got it. He smashed one palm at the car's ceiling. The junk shook under his hand and Numbers jumped back to look at him, this time meeting anger. Wrench's gestures were slow, he wanted him to get every bit, the expression on his face in charge of delivering fury.

_I don't need your pity._

      "What? Seriously?" Numbers scratched one ear as stepping back once more. He could say anything now, but fuck it if Wrench didn't know the son of a bitch was pressuring Fargo because he thought if he didn't, Wrench would starve until the next job appears. The hell if it was true, he didn't need or want that kind of shit from him. Anyone but him.  _I don't pity you, I pity myself for having to deal with you._ "Stubborn piece of shit", the last part was said when he turned away, so all Wrench got was ____ piece ___ shit. He hit the car again, his partner jumped again, and they were both angry now. "Stop doing this, man, this thing is already falling to pieces".

 _Look at me when I talk to you_.

      Numbers' response was opening his eyes the wider he could and leaning in Wrench's general direction in a childish way. Wrench groaned to having his fair request being made fun of, and the pose dissolved quickly when he took a large and hard step forward. Numbers made an even larger step back, arms protectively extended between them. They had fought before and he knew better than to engage in physical assault with him. Wrench still had a purple bruise under his shirt where Numbers got a kick in, but the night ended with Wrench sitting on top of his legs and almost ripping one tooth off his mouth. He couldn't even remember why.

      Wrench sighed. That wasn't funny. He was tired of fighting Numbers and most times he wasn't even mad at what he was doing now, but to what he had done many years ago. It was not fair to any of them. He was just tired of carrying that around. Wrench took a long look at Numbers expression, his arms still up, eyebrows arched as if he was uncertain if doing the wrong movement would disturb a savage animal, and for a brief second, he wondered why not just kill him already and end that story.

 _Just take the money_ , was what Wrench signed instead.  _It's my fault we aren't getting paid anyway._

      The defensive pose broke apart and Numbers lowered his arms to his sides. The way he looked at him made Wrench realize it didn't matter how many times he wished for killing that man, he would never be able to do it. He was his friend. Shit. He was the only friend he ever had. Wrench wondered if it would be like that having a brother, to be so close and care so much every little thing felt big and important. Then he remembered how Grady was with his actual brother and crossed that. They were something else, something new and old and raw. They were like opposing magnets. They were like the two parts of something. He wondered if Grady could feel it too.

_How is it your fault some dumb shit shot himself?_

      Wrench looked away and pondered if it was worth talking about it.  _Before, we would have killed the other one and got paid._

 _You wanted to kill the wrong man so we would get the money?_ Numbers let out a short smile that didn't meet his eyes. His shoulders went up in that way they always did when he couldn't believe what he was being told.

 _No._ He kept his fingers pressed against the thumb for a little longer, thinking about how to phrase the rest.  _But we didn't do this much detective work before._  

      Numbers put both hands inside his pockets. He saw it now, what Wrench was trying to point out, and didn't know how to continue on the subject. It was true, they did invest themselves more in the jobs that came after forehead tattooed junkie. None of them said a word about it. None of them ever talked about what they did before meeting up in that storage, and especially about what happened to Wrench's former partner. Numbers hated Wrench realizing it, how he would press and eliminate every doubt in the jobs after the fight in that motel room many nights ago. He didn't do it before; in his experience, things often are exactly what they look like, and in the world there's only black and white. He likes the simplicity. Wrench was the perfectionist. Wrench was the one who needed to be sure a mistake like that wouldn't happen again. It seemed like a little gesture, but it wasn't. It was commitment. And Numbers knew he was standing in the black area, he knew he had a foot there his entire life, the things done the past years being his straight up jump on it. He couldn't care less about the people they hurt or kill, like he wasn't supposed to. But he was fucking caring about Wrench. It annoyed him. It was gray.

      Numbers put his hand up, palm to the orange sky, and sighed exaggeratedly. Wrench waited for a minute, thinking he may be trying to say something, until he shook his open hand and used the other to point at the money Wrench was still holding. Right. Wrench gave it to him and watched as Numbers stuffed the bills on his pocket with that anger in his dark eyes doing it's best to disguise a shadow of guilt. He remembered how he had grabbed his arm and said sorry sorry sorry sorry in that cabin many weeks ago.

 _Let's drive over_ _night_ , he finally opened the car's back door. _I'm going to sleep, wake me up when you want me to drive_.

      Wrench nodded. He enters the car, put on his seatbelt and watched by the rearview mirror Numbers taking off his suit jacket to use it as a pillow. A shadow of a bruise showed under the line of his beard, top lip split from the previous fight. Wrench bit the urge of apologizing for that, and when the other lied down with his back to him and knees joined on his chest to fit in the small space, Wrench starts driving.

      It became one of the many unspoken agreements between them to always be sure.

 

* * *

PART V

_The jacket was on sale_

* * *

 

      It's the first week of November when Wrench buys himself the fringed jacket. Immediately it becomes his favorite piece of clothing.

      Just a few days before, he was sitting in a car with Mr. Numbers, watching the house of an office guy who had come across some documents the Syndicate wants gone. He was a family man, the white fence and lovely wife kind of life, probably had no idea what he had on his hands and was just trying to do the right thing pointing out accounting irregularities. They were watching for a while to learn his habits, take notes on who he's talking to, waiting to see if he hasn't contacted anyone about the papers yet. When two little boys went out the front door on a Halloween evening for trick-or-treating, Numbers turned to Wrench and told him he's got an idea.

      They walked slowly on the sidewalk, watching the children from afar for a good hour, hoping they'd eventually distance themselves from the group enough for them to approach. It wasn't a kidnapping, just a little reminder that it could be.

      The children were suspicious of Numbers' smile, but Wrench was good with the little ones. They found it amusing to see his big fast hands working on words they didn't understand. Once, a little girl asked if it was a spy thing and he almost forgot he was a dangerous person and nodded her yes. Some teenager in a slutty costume walked towards them, maybe to push the children away from the strangers, but the panic on her face turned into a smile when she saw them talking in ASL. What bad a deaf guy could do, right? Sometimes, Numbers would pretend to be deaf too just for the sake of getting that certain unsuspicious people thrown at Wrench, as if being deaf was enough to turn an over six feet tall hitman with arms as big as Numbers thighs into a teddy bear. It was insulting. But that night he talked to the girl, said he worked with the kid's father, said the man's name, pointed at his house, then she left them alone.

      It turned out Numbers was right, the target almost shit his pants when the two men appeared at his house with his children. The youngest sat on Wrench's shoulders, finding it amusing to see the world from above.

      Wrench isn't sure Numbers wouldn't hurt a kid, but he knows he wouldn't. There's a limit to what money could buy him to do. But the man didn't need to know that, he only needed to know that he was big, scary and was holding his son.

      The talk was relatively easy and they returned to the car with a feeling of accomplishment. Numbers had picked up some candy from the man's house, in that unpretentious way he liked to show himself on this kind of jobs, his calmness and good manners making the targets even more nervous; he thought it made him look cool. Wrench hated to admit he did look cool unbuttoning his suit jacket and crossing his legs at that family table. He asked for a hot cocoa for his friend, that board but not harmless smile on his lips. The man gave them all the papers he had. Numbers smooched the little boy's ginger hair on their way out.

      They trade cars and parked outside the house to set a stakeout. Previous jobs taught them this kind of thing could backfire if they weren't careful. The syndicate wanted it handled without triggering any alarms, which usually meant no bodies if you can avoid it, so they would do it the boring way and keep watching for a week to see what they got on the guy. They had done stakeouts before, but it usually consists on waiting for the target to show up, to make sure a safe place is empty or to investigate someone so in deep shit they couldn't keep themselves for breaking in a couple days. One week is a lot of time to pass inside a car and Numbers is already bored.

      He is eating some of the candy while Wrench watches the street. His mind was somewhere else.

      What Wrench was thinking about most that night was how that street and evening reminded him of his own childhood. One of the boys from the office man was dressed as a cowboy, and in a certain Halloween forever ago, maybe another life, sometimes feeling like it happened to other people, it was him and Grady coming out for trick-or-treat. Wrench didn't have the money for a real costume, so they just wrapped him in toilet paper and told people he was a mummy. Grady had a complete cowboy costume; guns, fake mustache and everything. What stuck to Wrench was the way the fringes of his leather jacket moved when he pretended to shoot people down the street. He wasn't an envious boy, his friend always willing to share his nice things with him, but he envied Grady that night.

      The house Wrench lived in as a kid didn't look nothing like the houses on that neighbor, but once he met Grady, they grew to spend a lot of time in nicer locations than his childhood home. The place they're hiding in their stakeout looked almost like their favorite park, the one were they first met.

      Wes' father used to sit in a bench under a tree every other day in nice neighbors like that one, and sometimes, when his mother couldn't take care of him for the day, he would take Wes along. Wrench knew now the man was selling drugs, but at the time he just enjoyed the open space and nice swings. And the pick-pocketing. He saw the three siblings one afternoon; boy and girl about his age playing with their bikes, the older brother fighting them about something. When the three start running away and the younger boy left his bike sitting on a tree, Wes didn't think twice before getting on top of it and flighting. His father didn't think twice about not caring about where he got a bike.

      The next time his mother was busy and his father dragged Wes along, he was riding his new bike, and it was all good until the kid from before spotted him. They trade a mutual shocked look. Wes could read him screaming  _that's my bike!_ before running in his direction. Grady almost grabbed him, but he didn't. But he told his parents, who came to talk to his father, who hit the crap out of him for dragging attention. The next time he was brought to that part of town, his eye was still swollen and Wes sat in a swing the whole day waiting to go back home until the boy and his sister came to give him shit. " _I think he's retarded",_ Adina said. _"I think he's deaf_ ", Grady said. _"Like that kid form my class with the huge ears?"._ The next time he was there, Grady's hands moved in awkward gestures asking if he wanted to play. 

      Wrench jumped when Numbers touched his arm to get his attention. It was 1:00 A.M. and only drunk teenagers were still walking around.

_You have kids._

      Wrench's eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure he understood what that's supposed to mean. Numbers wiped a piece of peanut off his beard and did it again, this time making the right facial expressions.

_Do you have kids?_

      Oh, it was a question. Knowing the full sentence didn't make things less unintelligible for Wrench, which scowl grew deeper as he answers:  _Why?_

      Numbers shrugs.  _Bored. Curious. I don't know._

      Wrench went back to watching the street. He didn't have to say anything about his personal life to him. Thinking about it, he didn't even know Numbers could get curious about him, since they never talked about anything remotely non-job related. That was a whole new territory.

 _You did good with the kids_ , he kept signing after a while.  _So I was wondering. That's all._

 _No kids_ , Wrench answered shaking his head.  _No woman. Just me._

      Numbers nodded. He did the sign for  _me too_ a minute later. Another whole minute passed before he added two more signs to that dead sentence. _Just us._

      Wrench wanted to say that there is no  _us_ and grab that finger he pointed at the two of them to make the bones pop when he broke it, but he didn't. Too tired. They expend most of the day sitting around, so he doesn't even know why he is tired, or tired of what. But he's not prepared to look through one of the cracks, so what he does instead is take off his seat belt and go in the back seat to look for his bag. Numbers' eyes are taking turns into watching the house and his partner's movements as he searches for something inside the bag.

_The library robbery?_

_Yes. Never got the chance to return it._ He was surprised the other remembers that, but his face is blank when signs. It was a good book, Wrench had wanted to read Divine Comedy for a while now and he just finished Inferno. Something on it seems funny to Numbers, because he is doing one of those smiles that weren't creepy, just purely entertained.

_Do you realize this is not a book with jokes on it?_

_Fuck you!_ The quickness with which his middle finger rose to that question made the other laugh.  _You think you're much smarter than me, don't you?_ Numbers seemed like he was about to keep making fun of it, but something on the accusative glare Wrench was giving made him reconsider. He let his hands fall to his lap and replied nothing. Not in the mood to read anymore, Wrench threw the book back in the bag and crossed his arms on top of his chest. He is sure his angry breath is making noise by the way his partner is reacting to it, fingers tapping the side of his leg. _People always assume this,_ Wrench uncrossed his arms to sign in the space between them. _I don't give a shit about them, but you should know better._

      Numbers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He said something under his breath, but Wrench wasn't able to read it.

      Then there is an awkward silence inside the car. Numbers put a hand through his hair and let it rest behind his neck. He is the one who says something next. _Why are we even arguing? This is dumb. I don't think you're stupid. I sure wasn't going to choose a stupid partner._

      Wrench’s tense shoulders relax a little. He just answers with a brief _it's fine_ and looks away from him and back to the house. He can see the boy's hat from the cowboy costume on the balcony. 

 _I was just thinking,_ he continued to sign in the silence that stayed, not looking at Wrench while doing it, and Wrench isn't looking at him either, but the car is small enough that he sees it in the corner of his eye. _This place looks a lot like the one when we were kids._

      Numbers clapped his hands at his thighs, feeling the awkwardness too. He made his lips into a thin line and looked up. Wrench didn't get a chance to answer, because the office man just walked outside the house and was going to his car with a big box under his arm. At 1:30 A.M., right after their visit, it wasn't difficult to assume what he was going to do.

      "Chrissake! All he needed to do was sit tight".

      That part was crystal clear on Wrench's lip-reading because he was thinking the same. Not much hope for a clean job after that. The bright side of it, Wrench thought as he drove with the lights off after the man, he wasn't going to spend the following week locked inside a car with a nostalgic Grady. The darker side of it, Wrench was trying not to think about, was the wife and kids and hot cocoa.

           

      The fringed jacket jumped at his eyes when he was out shopping for non-perishable food and decided to get some bullets for his newest restored Richards-Mason. It was a really old and pretty useless gun. Numbers immediately made a face when he saw Wrench putting it in his pocket when the guy they trade fire with drop it, but he had a soft spot for old revolvers and couldn't help himself.

      The jacket was on sale at the window of the type of store real cowboys frequent. It was really nice; light brown, suede, his exact size and, entering the store to buy ammunition to a Richards-Mason, he felt like traveling in time. The place smelled like leather and powder. Wrench bought the ammo and the thing on sale just pointing at it. The kinds of people who own these kinds of places rarely care if you're the quiet type, so it was a relief not having to write it down or play charades for once. Everybody should be like that.

      Wrench got his jacket, his gun and his ammo and drove the pickup into the woods where the noise wouldn't be heard to put all three to good use. He enjoyed himself shooting at cans, awkwardly filled with proud. Maybe it was a silly thing, but he didn't care. He felt like he earned it, like it meant something, like it was some kind of life-changing moment in his life. He had money now, he was going on three years without a pike, he worked so fucking hard for all of it. And he never bought anything for himself that weren't bullets or food before. It was just fair he gets to buy that damn thing. It was just fair he could enjoy stuff. He wished Numbers was there with him; he would probably roll his eyes and smoke his cigarette with an accusatory frown on his face.

      The day Numbers stopped in front of his building and sent the beep to let his partner know he was already waiting outside, and Wrench came down the stairs in his new jacket, the accusatory frown was exactly what he got. He doesn't even know what expression is that Numbers' face is contorted into. It seems like Numbers himself doesn't know how he is supposed to react to that when Wrench finish shoving his things on the back and enters the passenger seat. He puts on his belt and looks over to Numbers, who choose to go with disbelief.

_What is this?_

_What? The jacket?_

_Of course!_  Numbers hands move fast, or at least the faster he could without messing up the signs, which isn't  _that_  fast really.  _Are you trying to make us easier to recall? Isn't enough for you being a giant? This, and the signing, everybody will remember us._

 _Are you worried the bodies we leave behind will recognize us?_   Wrench was starting to get annoyed. He had anticipated a tail look or even a joke or two, but not an entire argument over such trivial thing.

_The people from the diners? The motels? Every other person in the world we don't kill?_

_What about your beard?_

_What?_ Numbers squeezed his eyes and let out a hiss.  _Men have beards, this is normal. Your hideous jacket is a pig magnet._

_One more word and I'm using this in every single job we do for now on._

_You're going to get us arrested!_

_That's settled, then. I'm making this my work clothes._

      Numbers groans and rubs his face between hands. He can't fucking believe this man. Sometimes, he thinks Wrench is so immature and stubborn he is still a child, other than an adult hitman growing in their bosses likes. At first, it made him want to shot him while he was asleep and tell Fargo someone else did it. Now, it's just frustrating. Like when he refused help after his father hit him so hard he couldn't even stand on his feet. Like when he said he was okay after he shot a man for the first time, minutes later fainting at the sidewalk (they were fourteen, there was a fight, the gun rolled to his feet and he caught it. "Don't point a gun at a man if you're not willing to take the shot", they were taught. So he shoots). Numbers hated that, knowing he was right - about the jacket, about they having to make plans on killing his father and run away, about they having to stay together - and having Wrench get things his way out of stubbornness.

_And if is this remarkable, maybe it's a good thing. People will be looking at it rather than my face._

      Numbers can't disagree to that, realizing he is staring at the thing the whole time they're arguing. He knows defeat when he sees it and just drives. Wrench catches him throwing that discreet tail looks under sunglasses for good part of the trip, fast glances that are already gone every time he thinks of flip him a finger, and can swear he's still doing it even when they got to the motel and Wrench strips off the jacket.

 

      The job was fast this time and they were back the day after to collect their money and drive to their respective places. The first stop, as always, was at Wrench's. He took his bag and headed out to the building while Numbers stayed, climbing at the driver's seat. Wrench didn't look back; there wasn't a reason to, they have done it so many times now he can't keep track. But he probably should, because when tried to close his apartment door, a hand jumped on the way to keep it open and Numbers was there, angry and panting.

 _I'm running after you for seven sets of stairs! How do you climb them so fast?_ He signed in front of his face as if Wrench was the cause of all the stress in his life.

      Wrench waited for him to stop breathing like he just ran a marathon and look back up. _What do you want?_ He should be worried. Numbers had never got inside the building before and didn't know the number of his apartment until now. It crossed a lot of professional boundaries. But then he raised his hand and shoved the fringed jacked into Wrench's face.

 _You forgot it in the car._ He was holding the jacket between hands and looking at him, blinking, unmoving. Numbers was suddenly uncomfortable with being stared at and decided to elaborate on his actions. _I'm not keeping your trash until we meet again._

 _Thanks._ Wrench frowned and sat the jacket on the hook behind the door. He was not sure why he said the next thing; maybe it was the way Numbers was still breathing hard, maybe it was because he wanted to return the favor.  _Do you want a glass of water?_

      He knew it even less why the other made his hand into a fist and shook it up and down.  _Yes._ So Wrench let him pass and, shit, Numbers was standing in his living room.

      Stopping in front of the couch, he looks around, like an animal who just entered a new environment and hadn't decided yet if it's hostile. Wrench anticipate some “your apartment is as gross as your face”. But the moment passes and he kept there saying nothing, just glancing over everything. He stares at the ugly wallpaper, the dirty floor and dishes, the two sets of chairs in the dinner table filled with empty bottles of beer, the hole in the wall and the TV over a small piece of furniture Wrench made himself and is probably the nicest thing he owns. When he finishes scanning the little room, Numbers go back to Wrench. He puts both hands up and arches his brows as if saying _so?_. Oh right. The water.

      No glass was clean enough to avoid a nasty joke, so Wrench lent himself to the role of washing one. It was hard to stop himself from keeping casting quick glances at what he was doing in the living room. Numbers found the bookcase and was standing in front of it, head turned to the side to read the titles. When Wrench came back with the water, he was flipping through an edition of Tex.

_Did you steal all of this?_ He put the comic back and Wrench shook his head in an uncertain way.

_Some. Not all._

_You read a lot._

_My TV doesn't have captions. Reading is better to pass the time._ Some of the signs were mixed up due to his right hand being occupied with the glass of water. Numbers got the cue and said what looked like an "oh, sorry" before taking it with a quick sign for  _thanks_. Wrench waited for him to drink.  _You shouldn't be this tired for some stairs, you know? You smoke too much._

_What are you, my doctor?_

_I'm the one you are going to get killed if you can't climb a set of stairs without having a heart attack._

      Numbers rolled his eyes and resumed to drink his water. They were the same age, but something in his skin made him look older. Probably the smoking. Wrench has seem him go through a whole pack of cigarettes in one night when they were at stakeouts, but never really reflected upon it other than how he hated the smell on everything. It was not reassuring to know his partner would be dead weight in a chase, although he was a good shooter and did well in interrogations. But, if he could choose, Wrench would still go for pairing with someone healthier who could run up some set of stairs.  


      Something clicked inside of him.

 _Can I ask you a question?_ And just like that, Numbers' casual posture was gone. Something fierce flashed in his eyes as he settles the glass down the center table. The conclusion came: the new environment was hostile, after all.  _Not personal,_ Wrench assured. Even so, the other thinks for a while before nodding positively.  _Do you remember the last job on Halloween? The accounting?_ Numbers nodded again, now seeming curious.  _What do you meant by choosing me as your partner?_

      He tried to hold it, but Wrench saw the way his eyes opened for a brief moment and he blinked in surprise. Numbers wasn't the only one good at interrogations. Many times in his life, all Wrench had with him was his ability to read body postures. Some nerve was hit there.

 _I don't know what you're talking about._ What an awful liar.

 _In the car. We argue about you calling me stupid. You said you wouldn't choose a stupid partner. Choose._  Wrench repeated the sign, index and middle finger up forming a "v", the other hand picking between the two of them. It was hard to miss or confuse with anything else.  _Choose._ _You used this sign. Why?_

      Numbers tapped his forehead and out. _I don't know._ Wrench kept scowling at him, now shifting his weight from one leg to another with impatience. Numbers sighed. There was no way out of that.  _What are you asking me?_

      Wrench stopped his weirdly intimidating leg dance. A man that big, he would look intimidating doing anything if kept scowling like that while on it. It used to be funny when he did it to getting watch duty on a package delivery or loose on  _Missile Command_ , a pout version of his father's most common expression. It was as far as possible to be funny now. Numbers had the feeling his friend's father never looked as menacing as Wes grew up to be. The scowl vanished for a moment. If Numbers didn't know better, he could swear his partner looked resigned, as if even him wasn't sure about asking that. His hands finally moved again.

_Did you ask him to have me as your partner?_

      Knowing what he was about to ask didn't make it better when he finally did it. The only reaction the other gave him was scratch his beard and hold one long gaze.

 _No._ There was a moment of silence that had nothing to do with the incapability of having a spoken conversation and Numbers blamed it on that stupid fringed jacket.  _I told them I was working with one of the drivers to find V-I-C-A-R-S. After we finish, they asked me what I think of you. We still need drivers. I told Carlyle who you were. He asks if I think you could be trusted. I said maybe. He asks if I want to take you_ _in._  There was a pause. Wrench's face was giving him nothing. _I said yes._

 _Why?_ It is not an accusation, there is no anger in his signing this time and no way around it: Wrench looked resigned and tired like Numbers had never seen him before since they told him his name was Mr. Wrench. And then he holds his breath and asks himself if this is it, if it's finally happening, if they are having the conversation they're both running from for months.

      Since that first night, he wants do hug him and laugh and cry and tell him every last messed up thing he has done and suffer alone those long years, and say thank God you're alive I felt like I was drowning or blindfolded or bleeding this whole time you were gone and this, this feeling, is the most awful thing I ever felt and it's also so fucking _nice_ and I can't believe I finally fucking found you, I looked for you fucking everywhere, don't you vanish like that again assho- but Numbers is fighting that urge for months now and he's got quite good at keeping it down. They don't get to do that. They're not kids anymore. So he looks away instead. He thinks of an answer he can give Mr. Wrench.

_I don't know. I just did._

      Wrench nodded and somehow it was enough.

 

* * *

PART VI

_Maybe you have to hate something before you can love it again_

* * *

 

      They were going to deliver a retrieved bag of money in some medium sized city when a call arrived. The person they're supposed to meet will be late. The following orders where clear: spend the night in and do it tomorrow, same settings.

      That place was not far from Wrench's town, and with the job almost done, just a drop out ahead, he thinks about asking if it would be okay for him to pull over at the bus station and go home, leaving Numbers to finish it on his own. He could have Wrench's payment for the day. However, before turning to sign, it goes through his head that one time, about five months ago, a simple drop out went out of control and they got ambushed into a crossfire. It happened once, it could happen again. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to let him alone.

      A motel flashes behind a gas station and he began to turns left towards it, but Numbers grabbed his arm to keep the steering wheel steady. The car went straight to the highway.

 _What?_ Wrench asks, doing his best to sign, drive and look at him at the same time.  _It seemed like a nice place to spend the night._

      The other look away and closes himself between shoulders, trying to get some warm, but Wrench knows him good enough to tell that he's just avoiding the question. It's not so cold outside, and the heat is on. The answer comes accompanied by a blank face.

 _My place is nearby. We can rest there._ And he adds, because Wrench almost loose his eyeballs to how much he opened his eyes to that.  _If I have to sleep with people fucking like P-I-G-S in the next room again, I'm going to engage in a S-L-A-U-G-H-T-E-R._

      Not pushing his luck, Wrench replied nothing. Truth is, he's also tired of spending his nights at sideroads motels or at the backseat of the car, trying to get some sleep with his knees onto his chest because he is too big for that tiny thing and Numbers is driving like a mad man, the radio on so loud everything shakes. They're on the road for half a month now, job after another in a shit spiral of guns and bar fights. He wants to rest somewhere away from stained sheets and narrow uncomfortable beds. And it would be a lie if he said he'd never been curious about what Numbers' place would look like.

      His partner gives directions from the passenger seat, pointing at where to turn as they pass by houses, stores, condos, crossing down town, the bars full of young city people, neon lights shining. The city suits Numbers. For a while, Wrench thought Numbers still lived somewhere in Fargo, but as soon as he realizes the syndicate only did want his employees of that nature on Fargo at highly necessities, duo to don’t make it easier for the police tracking them down, he wondered about where his partner lived. That city was a good fit. Or so he thought, because they drove more and the place starts to get murky, light poles broken and girls at corners. Buildings deteriorate as if the car is moving through time. The smell of sewage got to them even with the windows closed. They are passing some abandoned factories when Numbers grab his arm for him to stop. Wrench parks, although uncomfortable by the location. It looked like a place you would bring someone to murder. Numbers take his seat belt off and sign:  _step out of the car._

      Unconsciously, Wrench's back straightens to reach an upright posture that shows all his size and Numbers stares from the passenger seat, ignorant of the reason why he is being faced by a slightly threatening expression many times seen on his partner's face when they're on a hit. Enlightenment comes only a second later. Wrench relaxes when the other starts laughing.

_I don't know if I'm offended you think I bring you here to kill you, or flattered that you're so scared of me._

      Wrench's face turns red as hands flight angrily. He's grateful for being that dark.

_You bring me to where we leave bodies and tell me to step out of the car, what did you expect me to think? Why do you live in somewhere like this and how is this better than a motel in any way?_

_I don't live here, moron!_ _We have to ditch this car!_

      Oh, that makes more sense.

      Numbers only shakes his head in disbelief.

 _I got a guy who does this for me_ , he continues to explain. Probably should have done it before, but it was always dangerous to talk to Wrench when he was driving. _He is C-A-G-E-Y, I can't bring you or the deal is off. He is good, always have the untraceable cars we use, like this one. I will ditch this, get my own and pick you up here in fifteen minutes. Then we can go._

      Feeling foolish, but a bit relieved he got it all wrong, Wrench gets out of the car after sketching a nod and Numbers jumps into the driver's seat. The car lights drawn lines all over the deserted street when the engine starts and then he is gone.

      Wrench leans against the wall of a building, slightly away from the lamp post to avoid suspicious glances as he waited, folded arms over his chest. The feeling of being on a street like that so late at night again made his mouth go dry. He had a gun and was waiting for someone this time, but it was still distressing. Two or three cars passed him casting suspicious glances. He was standing there for a good twenty minutes when a black corolla pulled up. He did not approach. It could be anyone wanting any kind of thing a man like him would be offering on a deserted corner. But then the window slides down and a familiar face smiles.

 _How much for a blowjob, sweetheart?_  Numbers jokes.

      He stops on his way to the car to respond in an equal teasing tone.  _Like you could afford me._

_I got a pack of cigarettes and ten bucks. Is it too much? Do you have change?_

_Fuck you._

_If I'm paying, it'll work the other way around,_ and he does again that sign with both hands over his heart and thumbs almost touching that meant honey, sweetheart or babe _._ It feels like a  _babe_  type of sentence. Wrench just enters the car so he could drive them off that shithole.

 

      A beautiful young woman enters the elevator they're in and greets them with a smile, turning to Numbers with a “hey, how are you doing?”. She knows him. They are at his building and he's trading a short and polite small talk with a neighbor. Wrench wonders if she would believe him if told her that personable neighbor was telling him the right moment to get a man's tooth out of his mount with pliers five hours ago. She would probably think he was crazy and pull Numbers away.

      Her hand coming to greet him too cut off his thoughts. Numbers interrupts, apparently to tell her his friend is deaf. There is surprise and confusion in her face for a moment before she turn to him again and smiles.

_Hi, I’m S-U-S-A-N._

_E-T-H-A-N,_ he lies. It’s been so long no one besides Numbers signed to him he almost forgot ASL was a real language and not something they made-up together to communicate.

_I like your jacket._

      “Come on” Numbers instantly cry out with a snort.

      “It’s nice!” she laughs softly, receiving another mockery sound in response. “It has personality”.

 _She likes my jacket. Deal with it._ Wrench signs back with a flattered grin. Since it had been some time anyone complimented him, he's found compelled to return the gesture.  _Thank you. I like your smile._

      A little red blush paint her cheeks as the elevator doors open on their floor. They get out and Numbers gives him a playful punch.

_Quit flirting with my neighbors, C-A-S-A-N-O-V-A._

      He was about to sign something waggish about jealousy or how he can’t help the ladies throwing themselves at him, but he doesn't have it on tonight to play that game and just shrugs, the fringes of his praised jacket swinging on board shoulders.

      Numbers gives him a strange look for his partner's expression moving to show disdain towards the woman. He pulls the keys from his pocket and open the apartment door.

               

 

      It was a nice apartment. Not that big, not many furniture, but clean and organized. It had a big couch, a modern looking TV and a small balcony in the end of the kitchen, apart from the living room by a marble counter. There were no holes in the walls and no weird wallpaper; the walls were just white and right. Some vinyls, tapes and CDs were carefully organized and displayed on a shelf along with a couple old cameras, and a black guitar rested upon the center table. Wrench knew Numbers liked music for the time spend with him inside the car, but had no idea he could actually play.

 _Put your jacket over there and leave your boots by the door,_ he gestured after touching his shoulder twice for Wrench to look at him.

      Wrench took off the jacket and left the muddy boots beside the door to step barefoot on the cold apartment floor. He didn't know how much Numbers was making, but clearly it was a lot more than him.

      Numbers was already turning on the heat.

      He did not dare to do more than go a few steps in and stand behind the couch, hands clenched, afraid to touch anything as if he was somehow going to break it. That was always the feeling that overcame him when walking into Grady's house when they were kids.

 _Are you hungry?_  He asked after checking if the place was heating up satisfactorily.  _I'm starving._

_I could eat._

      Wrench followed him into the kitchen and sat down the table as he opens the fridge looking for something that didn't expired after they spend that long on the road. He made two plates with leftovers, mostly salads and rice, and sniffed on it before concluding it was good enough for the night and shoving them into the microwave. While part of the meal heated, he went back to the fridge and took out some frozen sausages, eggs and two beers. One is placed on the table in front of Wrench, the other goes with him and the sausages to the stove.

      Drinking at work is something strictly prohibited. It's not a spoken rule, but common sense shared between everyone who relies on a steady hand to keep himself and their partner alive. You can ignore the rule, but you're probably going to die soon as a drunk careless hitman. A lot of them did. Wrench follows the rule, so he is alive. But the drop out will happen only next night, so he figures there's no harm to it and shakes the worries off his shoulders. The first sip is long and descends icy and refreshing down his throat.

      He realize that is probably the first time they are drinking together. He is not counting when they used to steal beer and get wasted under the bleachers after football practice, aiming at the empty bottles, but not being able to shoot because the gun they found didn't have bullets and by thirteen you're already smart enough to know you don't steal bullets without taking the risk of being shot.

      Dinner is quiet and nothing special. Wrench is not the kind of man who orders a dish that random in a dinner, but he tries not to come out as ungrateful and thanks for the meal. He asks if it's okay for him to take a shower. Numbers looks for a clean towel before indicating where the bathroom is. Wrench walks to it and it feels weird to strip down and step inside Numbers' tub. The whole bathroom smells like his partner and it's his soap, his shampoo, his razor, his toothbrush and everything around him is too personal and normal it made him sick. He felt outplace. He still opened the drawers. Sleeping pills, headache pills, pain pills, allergies pills, as many hair products as there was pills, as much hair as there was hair products on everything. A stack of porn magazines. Wrench closed the drawer and got out. 

      Numbers was at the balcony smoking a cigarette and drinking another beer, the thing so narrow part of him was still inside the apartment. He just had to raise his head to stare at Wrench as he enters the kitchen.

 _I'm going to bath now._  He signs closing the glass door to the night out there. _There's more beer in the fridge. Suit yourself._

      That end-of-day routine is common for them, many nights shared at motels. It's different there, at Numbers' place, as it was different that time at Wrench's flat. But it's more different there. Wrench’s flat is just that: a flat. Apart from a few books he likes to read, there is nothing in there that says anything about the dweller. Numbers' apartment is him all over, personal stuff in every corner.

      Wrench picks up a second beer and strolls around the living room and kitchen, peering a bit, but trying not to touch anything. There is another door in the corridor besides the bathroom and the one he had figured being the bedroom; that fucker had guest room. He can't even remember the last time he was in someplace that nice that wasn't for kill or hurt someone. Deep down he knows isn't that big of a deal, the apartment is just clean and empty enough that it seems bigger than it actually is. Neither the neighborhood nor building are fancy. But still, he had lived on the streets for months and moving into a tiny shitty flat was the best he could help for himself, he didn't know what to think to Numbers being able to afford such a luxury. Hell, it was messed up he even thought that place was luxurious.

      Numbers is back on the living room wearing sweatpants and shirtless. His hair is down, still wet. The hair has been seen messy before, but the sweatpants and no shirt are new. It’s hard not to stare.

      The other man stops at the fridge, beer on the way to his mouth, to sign. _What?_

_You have a lot of tattoos._

      Numbers looks at himself, unsure of what to take out that line.  _Prison was boring. Killed time._

      Another beer is finished, empty glass put over the counter. He exits the kitchen, going into one of the closed doors that weren’t the bathroom. Wrench is getting a new one for himself when Numbers is back, asking for him to take two, so he does it. The other is sitting on the floor by the glass door to the balcony with a little wooden box he got from the bedroom. Wrench go to give him his beer and is invited do seat across on the floor. A curious look holds on the box as Numbers opened it. It was weed.

      Wrench sits there and drink in silence watching his partner roll a joint. A going on thirty years old man, full grown, as hairy as it can get, sitting on the floor with weed like some teenager. They would have done it a lot together, if it wasn't for that shot.

 _I would never have taken you for a pothead,_ Wrench signs with that mockery half-smile on his face.

      Numbers just stare back, hands too occupied to answer. He takes a break to awkwardly sign with just one hand:  _Just home, helps me sleep. It used to be heavy stuff. I will take pothead and cigarettes over junkie._

      Wrench's mouth is pressed into a line and he says nothing. He can understand that. He picked himself a drug habit in prison too, it had been hard to bit, it made him do things he is not proud of. Not that he is proud of many things he's done.

      Opening the door just a bit to light his work on, Numbers inhales deeply and holds in for a moment, then smoke went out quietly from his mouth and nose and into the night. His eyelids drops. Wrench find it awkward to watch him like that and turn his eyes somewhere else. A feet kicks on his leg, forcing him to look up again. Numbers is motioning the joint in his direction. He hadn’t done any kind of drug since he decided if life was trying to kill him, it could do it without his help, so he hesitates.

 _B-L-A-C-K-M-O-T-E,_ his partner spells once Wrench decide to get it, to what he throws a confused look. _W-E-E-D with H-O-N-E-Y._

      He can’t help but scoff. Of course, Numbers' weed got honey on it! Why not?  _Even your drugs are sissy._

 _It’s good!_ One hand go through wet hair, getting it up, but it rolls down again.  _Don’t judge before you try._

      Wrench tries it; the end was wet. Numbers wait for him to get a good taste to ask what he thinks.

 _It’s alright._   _Kid's drug, something college students would smoke,_ he admits, passing it back to Numbers.  _I thought you would go to college and I would do prison, but turns out we both did the prison one._ The other replied nothing to it, but doesn't seemed uneasy either, maybe because of all the beer and weed.

_Did you really expect something else to happen?_

      He shakes his head.  _No. I thought about that before, when we were little. It came to me when I was on foster care._

      Numbers is inhaling again, his chest out and eyes low under the frown that is almost glued to his face. Wrench thinks he should shut up now. He thinks he is being watched by a wolf.

 _Why?_ The wolf that is his partner signs as slowly letting the smoke out of his body.

_I don’t know. When you didn't came to visit, I sometimes hated you, but other times I thought it was for the best. Like if one of us could have a shot, it would count for something. But you kept coming back to play baseball. I hate baseball. Look what happened._

_You’re not much of a fun drinker, are you?_

      He just shrugs and went for another sip _._

      They sat in silence, the apartment starting to smell funny. There’s another kick forcing him to look up.

 _I did both_ , he half-signs with one hand.  _Prison and college. The whole package._

      Wrench arch his eyebrows in disbelief.  _You went to college? Bullshit._

      Numbers' shoulders shook as if he is laughing, eyes already turning red. He stretched both legs.

 _After you went to juvy for_ _shooting that guy,_  this time, he is holding the joint between lips to have both hands free, _I didn't heard anything about you for a while. Not good at tracking, then. Other kid got back and said you were transfer to M-O-N-T-A-N-A._ He took a new drag, deeper, and watched the smoke coming up into the sky for so long Wrench thought the story ended there. Then he was back. _The syndicate was starting an operation there. I ask to go. Took months for being needed. Stayed for a few years. Nothing much to do. Asked around for you._  A new pause, this time shorter. _People didn't like me there. I screwed a few delivers. Hard doing it without you. So I was cut out. Had to steal_ _stuff_. _Killed for the first time there._  A hand leaped in the air, mimicking stabbing someone multiple times, then dropped back onto his lap. Wrench thought he was never less of a wolf. _I was on the streets, owning money, so I called mom. It was..._

      He didn't need to sign, the way his thumb scratched the deep crease between his furrowed brows was enough.

      Wrench didn't know why he was talking now, but he wanted to believe it wasn't just the beer and weed. Too much time in silence, it wasn't like them to be that way. They used to talk about everything and lately they only talk about Fargo and assignments and half signs full of resentment. Sure, life hadn't made them hard and mean and strangers then, but part of him always longed for that bond. He never felt that connected to anyone else in his life. He could still feel it, even if now they were hard and mean and strangers. It was a lie to say he had not seen, heard or think of Grady in about ten years. He thought about him often. He hated on him every time he put a needle on his arm. He knew now it was probably too much to put on a teen's shoulders, but it still hurts to be left alone, and he doesn't know how to feel about him if not that.

      Grady was still telling his story.

 _She cried a lot._  Of course she did. _Wanted to know were I was. I asked for money. Paid my share on the drugs I did, went back to_ _work_. The joint burned his finger and he put it on his mouth, sucking before smoking again; it was almost done. _I got a good thing selling to college kids. Made new friends. Even got myself a girl. Felt good for a while. They helped me finish my studies and start a shitty course. The friend was a photographer. Art student. Nice guy. Reminded me of you. Turns out he was an asshole. Freaked out when he finds out were the weed he smoked came from. A dealer I work with figures my friend is freaking and go to kill. Then I stabbed him. Puked four times while cleaning the scene. Cried, too. Dumped the body, but the asshole friend sold me out to the cops. They didn't find anything on the murder, but found the drugs. Got four in._

      It seemed like the end of it. Wrench was not sure there was something to say to that. He always thought Grady abandoned him that night he shot the delivery guy and moved on with his life. When Wrench woke up from having passed out, it was already over. Cops everywhere. It was the simpler deduction. He never thought he was going to see him again, didn't expect him to have tried at all.

      The last months, it's like they are together most of the time, but they aren't really there. Like Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench had devour what was left of Grady and Wes. Most times, it is a relieve. Sometimes, it scared the shit out of him. But he can't say it, so he does the next best thing and rubs a fist to his chest.

 _I'm sorry_ , was the best he could do.

 _No, that’s ok._ A smile dances on his lips and fast vanish as he shakes his hand.  _It was stupid. Thought hanging out with them, I could be like them. Better. It was stupid. You can't run from this. I am who I am._  Fast he gets the lighter and tries to lit the tip back on, avoiding looking up in case Wes is thinking about replying. He wasn't. When he succeed on liting it, Grady leaned against the wall and his eyes returned to face his partner. His hands resume moving. _It wasn’t that bad. Prison. Some syndicate men were in there, no one messed with us. That’s where I heard about a job offering. They told me he wanted me back to do collecting when I got out. Did it for a while, with a partner that did the finger broking while I did the smart talking. Hated that guy. Didn’t work out long._

      Wrench moved on his spot; he didn't know Numbers had another partner.  _What happened?_

_He tries to mess with the syndicate money, I put his head on a bag, got myself trust enough for better paying jobs._

_Would you do it to me?_

_If you try to steal from Tripoli? Probably. But you're smarter than this._ He just waves his hand again and drinks his beer. _And it would be a shame, you're a fine partner. However, you would be a lot finer if would get up and get me more beer._

      With an exaggerated annoyed expression, Wrench stands up from the floor to fetch more drink from the fridge. A question already run through his mind as he sits back on the floor, handing the cold drink to a recently discover to be talkative when stoned Numbers.

_That’s where the nickname come from? The collecting jobs?_

      Numbers don’t even bother to reply, he just nods affirmatively.

_And I assume you beat someone up with a wrench at some point?_

      Wes snorts. It's not the first time someone asks him that. Normally, he just go with it and nods, but there is no point in lying to Grady, so he shakes his head and bring his thumb close to his index and middle finger. _No_. Grady seems confused or just curious. _They called me that in prison. No one knew my first name, just saw the_   _W on the uniform_ _. I used a wrench on the assembly line, so they called me that. It just stuck._

      Numbers' face is so blank at the end Wrench is worried he signed too fast, but then he frowns and starts gesturing in an acustatory tone.

_You are joking._

      He is smiling and nodding, and he thinks he has never told anyone the real reason behind the nickname before. Numbers' frown is still burning, like he is waiting Wes to call the bullshit and just admit he killed some idiot with a tool somewhere in the past. But he had killed people with a crowbar, a hammer, a baseball bat and the regular knife and gun before. It just never happened with a wrench.

      Suddenly, Grady burst into laughter. He is saying aloud that's the most ridiculous thing he ever heard about someone's mob name, but Wrench can't understand the whole sentence. It doesn't matter. His friend is stoned and laughing and he hadn't seen him laugh in so many years he had no idea it looked like that on his adult face. It is a nice tone on him, he looks younger. No. He looks like the age he is. _  
_

      The joint is finished. Grady closes the door and gets up to take the wooden box back to the bedroom. Wrench is still quite sober, having finished only three beers and smoked one short shot of black mote (which, by the way, tasted like sweet crap), tiredness of the trip beginning to fall upon his body. Part of him wants Numbers not to come back from the room so he can go to sleep and they could end that in a nice quiet night, but he does come back. He throws himself on the couch where Wrench is sitting, pulling a cushion to rest his head on as taking another sip of the beer. He looks calm and relaxed as he never did on the job. When lie down, he throws his feet over Wrench's legs.

 _Do you mind?_ Numbers catch the way his partner is looking at his feet.

      Wrench drink his beer and answer nothing. Numbers don't ask again. He rest his head down and puts an arm over his eyes to hide from the light, then shift his legs and takes one hand down his closed eyes to scratch his balls, and it's fine, he can do that, he is in his own place and he is comfortable, stoned and he trusts Wrench enough to be that vulnerable in his presence. Wrench look, and he caught himself looking and shove Numbers feet away to raise from the couch.

 _I'm tired, I think I'm going to sleep now_ , he signs.  _Can I use your guest room?_

      Numbers blinks his lazy reddish eyes, taking a moment to understand the gestures made for him.

_I don't have a guest room. Who do you think I would bring here to stay in a guest room? I will set up the couch._

      Wrench inevitably glance to the door at the end of the hall. It must not have been a subtle move, because Numbers raises his head to see what his partner was spying on. He smiles and gets up.  _That's not a guest room. Come._

      Standing in front of the couch, holding his now warm beer, Wrench sighs before shaking his head and following. Numbers already opened the door and was turning on the lights when got to him. The room was full of guitars and stereos. Not  _full,_ but there's a good dozen of them in there, as well as some nice camera equipment and big sound systems Wrench doesn't know exactly what are made for. He's almost sure all that had to be stolen. The blinking quietly on the door continues until he notice Grady had gotten one of the guitars and was now sitting on the floor again. He starts playing something.

      Awkwardly stand by the door feels more awkward than doing something, so Wrench decide to awkwardly sits on a chair by the table with all the sound equipment over it and watches his partner. Numbers stops and look up. Licking at dry lips, he offer the guitar.

_I can't play._

_I know that. Just touch the cords. The feeling is nice._

      Wrench hesitates, but end up doing it. Numbers was right, it does feel amazing under the tip of his fingers.

      The other lie down on the floor, head resting on his arm and eyes closed. He breaths slow and calm as Wrench does soft inconsistent sounds with the guitar, immersed on the tremble of the cords. A new kick at his feet make him stop. He looks down. Numbers pointed at him.

_Me what?_

_What did you do after..._ The signing stops all of sudden, as if he just realized at the middle of it that was probably not a good idea to touch on that. Wrench knew what he was about to ask. Yes, it was the worst idea. He doesn't really like to talk about it or remember all that, and usually he doesn't have to because no one knows him there and he looks too scary to make a conversation where the topic may appear. But Grady already knows most of the story, he was there for the first part, when his shitty father killed his mother and Wes was sent to a foster home, and Grady would get on a bus, sneak in and visit, so they could crawl under a fence and run for the nearest field and no one ever bother to look for them. Until in one of those visits they lost the right to their names apart from one another to use.

      He puts the guitar down and raises his beer instead, drinking the rest of it in a single glup.

 _Juvy, most of the time._ _Then prison. Seven months. Got out for overcrowding._ Wrench signed to him, who is just there blinking like a owl, and let the pause turn into a long shared glare as he thinks twice before continuing.  _General population was not like juvy. Worst. No syndicate people in there to have my back. Daily fights. They stabbed me twice. Broke my fingers so I couldn't sign._ They didn't went through three before the guards found the little party, but until today Wes had nightmares where he can't move his fingers. He was too young to know how to use his size to intimidate. Being new, different and scared made him the perfect target.  _Didn't had any money or job when got out. Didn't want to get back to Fargo, either. So I stayed there. Did a few things here and there. Shoplifts, robbery. A lot of heroin. A lady in the shelter was nice to me. Her car broke, I fixed it. She set me up to work in the shop. Handwork, heavy, but I don't mind it. You know that. One day, B-I-L-L comes in. He's deaf too. No one there knows ASL besides him, so it's nice to have a conversation with someone. I know he and the boss are doing some illegal shit in the back. B-I-L-L asks if I want in, they need a big guy for a job. He asks If I would kill, I tell him yes. We do some work together, travel a lot, mostly delivers. Three years. You know the rest. He dies. We are here._

      Grady just stares at him with those lazy reddish eyes, a hand supporting his head and legs crossed. Wes is not sure if he was down on Earth enough to get to the end of his story, which makes him mad a first, but he let it go. It's fine. Maybe it's better that way.

      Grady takes out the hand under his head and reach for Wes' forearm. He tightens slightly until having the other man's attention.

 _Do you R-E-S-E-N-T me?_ He signs.

      So he was paying attention, after all. Wes look the other way and wishes he hadn't drink all the beer before, so he could do it now.

 _For what?_ He asks, but already knows the answer.

_Your dead partner._

_You didn't kill him. Even if you had, this one is on V-I-C-A-R-S, so why would I?_

      Grady puts a hand on his forehead and shake it away.  _I don't know._ He looks at his bare feet for a while, take the guitar closer, think about playing something but gives up. He looks back up.  _And for the rest?_

      Wes has to think about it. It's new to even have to think about it. A few weeks ago, the answer to that question was the only thing he was certain about. His hands start moving and they say something different.  _I did, for a long time. Not anymore._

_I beg my parents to adopt you for months after you were gone._

      There's a cold gasp going through his spine and up to the back of his neck. Grady drink some more and don't meet his eyes as Wes fixated his on him, hands a little shaky. It's a good thing he can press the bottle hard and stop the tremble, it's a good thing the other is too stoned to realize what that piece of information made him feel. He wants to hug him. He signs something instead.

_I don't know if we would do good brothers._

      Grady laughs. He looks young and stoned and drunk and vulnerable, and it's the first time since that night he got bit up in some storage Wes feels like they are back together. He feels like he never left and they have being doing this forever. Grady says something aloud, some "yeah, probably not" and closes his eyes again.

      Later, Wrench realized he was thinking about him as Grady, as he was thinking about himself as Wes, for most of the night.

 

      The smell of pancakes greeted him good morning. Opening his eyes, Wrench stared at a couple vinyls on a white shelf and couldn't make sense of where he is. Turning around on the couch, a familiar shape appears in his field of vision. Numbers is in the kitchen making breakfast.

      Wrench gets out from the covers and put his pants on before going into the kitchen. They eat in silence, as usual, but this time is strange to say nothing when yesterday they talked so much. He compliments the food, Numbers gives a closed mouth smile in response. Wrench offers to do the dishes when they finish.

 _We have to go out and get some food_ ,  _there's nothing here for lunch_. Numbers signs to him when comes back from the bedroom, hair up and shiny with pomade. The casual clothes were a lot different from the usual suits worn on Fargo; dark jeans and shirt with folded sleeves showing arms painted with tattoos. Wrench noticed, not for the first time, that Grady grew up to be a fairly handsome man.

      The experience of going to the groceries store around the corner with Numbers could not be described with anything less than bizarre. Apparently, he didn't want to leave Wrench alone in the apartment, which he could relate to, so they went to buy what's needed for lunch together. Numbers touches the vegetables, feels the texture and smells them before putting in the kart. The cashier knows him, she calls Numbers  _Adam_ , he pays for some items with coupons. Wrench wonders how much of that is Grady and how much is _Adam Denenberg_. He thinks about asking why all fake IDs his partner got have Jewish names, but before he could do that he stops himself, remembering the endless rules on his house, how most times he ran away were on Saturdays because he had something to prove, him burning things on their treehouse floor, and what he said last night about his mother. Wrench knew the answer to that one. They walk back to the apartment and cook - or Numbers cooks, Wrench sits at the table peeling potatoes and stirring the pan when requested. He didn't eat a home cooked meal in a while and it taste delicious, to what Wrench jokes that now he knows Numbers can cook, they will stay only in rooms with stoves.

      While there is nothing else to do, they sit on the couch to watch TV. He observe Numbers going through a menu with the remote and cursing for a few minutes before being able to turn the captions on. Wrench didn't ask for him to do it. He changes channels a lot of times until a movie catch his attention; he teases saying that that's probably what Wrench would like to watch, since there's someone also locked in the cowboy aesthetics. Wrench knew that movie; Midnight Cowboy. Numbers stops laughing when Wrench points out they look exactly as the protagonists.They argue more than watch the movie.

      The day was getting to 9:00 P.M. when Numbers left the not-a-guest-room where he was or playing guitar or messing around with the cameras to sign that they should go and finish the job. He is wearing a suit, and Wrench wonders how much of that is Grady and how much is _Mr. Numbers_. His Glock is already in place. Wrench just nods, turns the football off and goes to get dressed. The duo leave the apartment, change cars and drive to the meeting. Transition runs smoothly, no shot is fired.

 

* * *

PART VII

_No one will take a hitman with hamster cheeks seriously_

* * *

 

      Numbers is bleeding. The black, blue and now red scarf is pressed against the cut to his cheek, face working on reaching a new level of frowning. They had finished the job without major setbacks, the bleeding injury is not serious, the target is dead, but the car is silent with tension. The speedometer goes up and up. 100 mph. Wrench makes a tight turn that throws his partner against the door.

      "SHIT!" Numbers shout involuntarily. "I don't think we are being followed, slow down."

      But he doesn't do it. Numbers loosens the scarf to sign, yet Wrench doesn't slow down.

      Of course he's angry, it's obvious by that peculiar way the corners of his mouth go down and his eyebrows come together so hard it looks like he's trying to set someone on fire with his mind. Their targets always tremble at that scowl. It's a handy thing to have on your side in interrogations, but disturbing to be in the receiving line of it. He takes another tight turn to enter the motel parking lot, but this time Numbers is prepared and grab at the panel to avoid being shoved on the sides. Wrench shoots out of the vehicle and fastens to the passenger side even before Numbers can open his own door, receiving his partner with flying hands signing so fast and aggressively the other can barely catch a dozen words.  _Why? ... Irresponsible ... You ... Knife ... Piece of shit, that's what ... I ... Killed... Why? ... Fuck you... Why?_

      "Slow down! I can't understand you, slow down".

      But he doesn't do it. Wrench continues to sign fast, angry and beyond understanding. He keeps doing it for a good two minutes, getting slower over time, until Numbers can finally get through a full sentence.  _You don't trust or respect me, I can't work with you._

      "Oh, cut it!", he slaps at Wrench's fast hands and gives him a push to the chest. The man is like a brick wall. "I was trying to save your life, man, show some gratitude! He was going to stab you in the back! What was I supposed to do?"

 _Trust me to handle it,_ the signs are now slow and harsh, he wants Numbers to understand that part. _And not to fucking stop a fucking knife with your fucking face!_

 _It's yes-_ "Fuck!"  _It's NOT like you-_ "Shit! How can you sign this fast?! Fuck it!" He presses the scarf against the bleeding cheek once more, saying the next thing aloud and mouthing every word widely. "It's not like I was trying to! But sorry, Mr. Wrench, next time someone goes for murdering you, I'm allowing them! Be my fucking guest!".

_This is not the point. This is about you being reckless and putting yourself at unnecessary risk because you don't respect me._

      "Unnecessary? Are you being serious right now? He had a _knife_ , man!".

_He could have slashed your throat open._

      "But he didn't, did he? We are fine! Stop being this sensitive to everything, it's fucking embarrassing. It's like you don't even understand the concept of boundaries, right? You know what, man? I'm not having this conversation with you".

      He turns to leave, not wanting to look at his partner anymore. Numbers can feel Wrench coming after him, hear his hard angry steps over the snow, see his shadow spreading past his head. When they arrive at the door, he pulls Numbers by the arm.  _This isn't the end of it._

      The door slammed against the frame with a loud bang duo to Wrench's wrath strength. Once inside the room, he was the one turning his back to remove the coat, jacket and boots as his companion ran to the bathroom. The bed creaked with the big man throwing himself over unceremoniously, moving on the motel's uncomfortable mattress to look for a nicer position and crossing both hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling, trying to calm a quickened breath.

      Wrench knew he could have dealt with that situation, he knew as well that for little he wasn't dragging Numbers' dead body into the car instead of ignoring the lights on at the bathroom he was in, probably trying to take care of that cut. The thought of it made him cold, the idea of being left alone again, and he didn't stop to analyze that implied he wasn't alone anymore.

      Wrench got up from the bed, the mattress creaking again, and went to the bathroom. There he was. As imagined, trying to patch the cut on his face. Numbers had already cleaned all the blood and was trying to shave the bruised area without worsening the cut.

      Numbers eyes went up and he vocalized a furious "what is it now?". Nodding for him to sit down, Wrench walked into the bathroom and took the blade from his hands. The other complied after hesitating for about five seconds. Dampening one towel with water, he wiped the razor and bent in front of his partner. Two fingers went to his chin to lead Numbers' head toward the light, then he moved the razor to shave the area around the cut. If they did the stitches now, probably wouldn't leave a big scar. After shaving half the other man's face, he returned to the first aid kit to begin to actually treat the wound. Numbers' body jumped back when Wrench shoved antiseptic over the cut.

 _You have the delicacy of a constructor worker,_ he signed as Wrench stopped and looked at him, incredulous.

 _You're a baby,_ Wrench replied before tucking the gauze one more time over the cut. Numbers was sending deadly glares.

      It only took three stitches to close the wound. Wrench resumed examining his job, one hand at the bearded part of Numbers face and his eyes on the other one. It was a good, clean work, he has been reading about it on medical books since that job in which he had a bullet passing by scraping on his arm. Numbers beard was oddly soft, like actual hair, not that prickly at touch as most beards. He should have put on gloves for that, but the thought only occurred when it was almost an involuntary movement to run his thumb over the facial hair he was touching. Wrench pulled his hand away. Numbers seem to notice anything, or if he does notice, chooses to ignore.

_You should shave the rest of it. Or you could go for a mustache? Goatee?_

_Get out!_

      Wrench leaves and the door slams behind him. He lies down on the bed again, hands behind his head, and is almost asleep when the bathroom door opens. Bright lights turning on brings him back to consciousness and he turns his neck to see Numbers entering the room, clean from a shower and without the usual beard. Or without part of it. He really left the mustache on.

 _What?!_ Numbers hands asks as soon as he noticed the way his partner is looking at him.

      Wrench has seen the mustache before on one of Numbers' fake IDs, but never in person. He realizes something, and he would never have brought it up if he wasn't still mad at him. It would hurt. Good.  _You look a lot like your father with this thing on your face._

      Numbers delivers. His eyes went wide and his mouth opens and closes several times like he is impersonating a fish. When he finally choose something to reply, the signs are rash and his face is red. _Not cool._

      "Now I wish that guy had slashed my throat open". This part he said aloud, more to himself than anything, already turning on his heels to go back to the bathroom and cursing for taking that bait so easily. He only comes out five minutes later, not a hair on his face.

      It's odd. All that time they know each other as adults, Wrench has seen Numbers with different lengths of beard, but never without any. His face looks too young, too little, cheeks and nose too big, but at least it was easier - or less hard - to lip-read him, and if it were not for that Wrench would never have noticed that dimpled outline he had over his lips, a deep groove coming down from his nose to his mouth. Probably would have recognized him immediately that night on the storage if he had shown like that, clean shaved. Grady has always been hairier, his facial hair already growing out when they were fourteen, but he shaved everyday other day and used his hair way longer and wilder then. Apart from the haircut, he wasn't much different from right now. Wrench knows he is staring, but can't avoid it.

 _What?_ Numbers asks again, tired of feeling eyes following him around the room. _Stop staring at me. Nobody likes being watched. It's rude._

      Wrench was lying down on his bed, but sits to sign better.  _I understand why the beard now. You have really fat cheeks._

      He stops, frozen on his feet not distant to where his partner keeps staring at him with a neutral expression, like Numbers read the signs wrong and in reality he just asked what he wants for dinner. Numbers change the weight on his feet in an uncomfortable way three times, not knowing what to say. He was about to scratch his face when remembers the cut in the middle of it and lowered the hand back down. It raises back up to show Wrench a middle finger.  _Fuck you._

      The other made an embarrassing impression of a hamster and put a smug half-smile on his face. Numbers stares back, frowning, until a laugh escaped through his nose and he shakes his head because, really, there's not much else to do. He had stabbed people for less, but it doesn't seem worth it. When his hands finally move, it is to say: _it wouldn't be fair if I was the charming and the handsome one, you got to have something._

      Wrench blinked a couple times. Numbers was smiling and shaking his head as he walks to sit on the second bed, right next to his partner's. The smile was gone when he lifted his head again.

_I'm calling in the morning to report. You drive. Go get some sleep._

      Wrench nodded and got up to take a bath.

      The bathroom was hot and humid for the recent use. Numbers had cleaned the sink, as he always does, that angry and hurt but always polite of an idiot, but forgot the first aid kit and some bloody cotton with hair stuck on it. Wrench got down, picked them up and threw at the bin before taking his clothes off and getting into the tub. There's still some hot water left, but probably not much, he had to make it quick.

      He soaps himself and rubs his face, washing off the sweat from that awful day. For a while now they don't have many unexpected events or serious injury on assignments, Wrench almost forgot how things could go bad fast until he saw the man raise a knife and the snow red. But he doesn't want to think about that anymore. Numbers' blood is already dry on his fingers and the color is almost orange. It is not the first time he has it on him, but it never gets easier to wash off. Wrench choose something else to focus as he notices his chin is scratchy, not having shaved for about five days now, and thinks about how it was possible Numbers would have a beard that soft.

      He wonders what was that about. He didn't seem to notice it, he said it like it was nothing, like it was obvious Wrench was the  _handsome one_.

      Or it could have been a joke.

      Maybe he noticed that almost affectionate stroke to his cheek in that same bathroom half an hour ago and decided to mess with him. Wrench wonders about what would have happened if he had moved his thumb a little more forward, touching his lips. If they would be as dry as they always seemed to be, or surprisingly soft like the beard. He wonders if Numbers would have parted them. If he would have slid his tongue out and licked at it, mouth opening for Wrench to push another finger inside, and then suck at his fingers like he was eager to put something else in there. He wonders about what it must be like to feel the hair on his body, whenever it would be soft or as rough as it seemed, as rough as he was, and what it would be like to run both hands through them, through all the scars and paint, from his hairy chest to stomach and into his pants, feeling the thick pubic hair and his cock growing under a sturdy grip.

      Wrench pants. Leaning back on the wall, he strokes his own erection in a faster pace as picturing if Numbers would kiss like he kills, efficient, fast, like it's a precise art, or if he would embrace other man's dominance and give in into it. Would he stuck short nails into Wrench's back and look him in the eyes in a vulnerable way to having his cheeks squeezed and fingers still wet with saliva playing around his asshole, or would push Wrench to do so, yanking his hips, hungry to try something new, exciting and wanted for so long? Letting out a soft groan that comes hot against Wrench's face when he finally reached inside, so tight and so his? Wrench would scissor him and enjoy the feeling of him wanting it, needing it, losing all that composure. And he wonders about what would be like to get him to his knees, sucking his dick in that tiny motel bathroom, looking up at him as Wrench brushed himself against those lips and that deep groove over it. He would get to touch the center of that perpetual frown before slowly pushing him into swallowing his cock all the way to the base. Then he would lean over the sink, offering his ass, holding his cheeks spread as Wrench pulled his meticulously tidy hair and messed it up, and fucks him. He would do it slowly, at first, feeling that cut dick throbbing on his grasp as the rhythm grows fast, all the time watching that fucking handsome and fucking dangerous face reflected in the bathroom mirror saying words Wrench cannot hear but can feel and read on his lips, red by the exchanged kisses. _Fuck me_ _. Harder. Like that. It's so good to feel your cock inside of me._  Feels even better to be inside of him, watching him bounce over that sink and grab at the borders of it hard, knuckles white, eyes rolling back on his head and not holding back the moans that run over his body fulfilled with pleasure.  _I need you, Wes._

      The water is already cold when Wrench finishes. He stands there in the tub, letting the freezing shower wash the semen off his legs and trying, trying hard, not to think that he just jerk off to a graphic fantasy about fucking the only friend he ever had. The shower is turned off, he dries himself, puts on his clothes and goes to lie down. Numbers is already asleep. Wrench don't think he would be able to sleep that night.

      Suddenly, the lights blink back on. He glimpsed at his side and Numbers' eyes are open, staring directly at him like he _knows_ , he just knows. Wrench swallows dry. He thinks Numbers will raise a hand and point the Sig Sauer he kept under the pillow to his face, scream that he is a fucking faggot, shoots him in the middle of the eyes and feels nothing but disgust. One chubby cheek was red because of the new injury. It takes him some seconds to manage a few signs, but in that quiet room, it passes to Wrench as if they were glaring at each other for hours.

 _I just want you to know,_ he signed in the low light, brows arched, lips squeezed,  _I do respect you._

      Wrench nods. Numbers nods back and turns off the lights. Wrench stares at the dark and he was right, he can't sleep.

 

* * *

PART VIII

_A Jew and a Deaf hitman walks into a bar_

* * *

 

      It was Wrench's idea to go to a bar. He wanted to watch the semifinals and the job was too brief for getting a motel room. The guy was already caught by one of their coworkers, an older asset with too much fat around the middle and a bald spot. They called him Mr. Sniffer. He was good at tracking anyone down, but not that good at extracting information, so Fargo sent Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers to assist. Numbers told Wrench Mr. Sniffer taught him a trick or two when he was away. They didn't seem close, though; nothing more than two sentences exchanged and the partners were left alone with the target.

      For some time now, Wrench noticed Numbers wasn't close to any other Fargo employee. He didn't appear to have friends at all. While other members of the Syndicate met at the usual restaurant or club, the two of them shook hands, got their money, drove away. He supposed those men weren't the most affectionate figures to have around growing up, but it wasn't just that. Apart from the big bosses, the more expendable assets were mostly new meat. Numbers wasn't up to socializing with them, either, always passing on the few invites new guys made for them, and Wrench was genuinely relieved. In his experience, is best to keep distance, a low profile, be efficient and discrete. A quiet type. Numbers also said they all thought he was a pretentious asshole. Wrench was sure they all thought he was Numbers' dumb muscles.

      The request for that interrogation was taking the location of a safe house out of the man. He cracked only by their little dance of the silent giant signing big gestures about things he couldn't understand and that smile that told him it would all end if he gave them what they wanted. This time, it ends up not being necessary to even put a finger on the mark. The only contact was that intimate touch on his face, Numbers talking so close it broke all rules about personal space.

      Mr. Sniffer drove by himself to the place to make sure they weren't being lied to. Whatever it was the man was holding there - they didn't know, Fargo didn't tell them this time, and if they didn't tell them something it was just best not to ask -, Mr. Sniffer got it and told them to clean the scene. Numbers shot the guy, Wrench carried him to the trunk. 

      The job was clean, fast and Wrench just wanted to watch the game without being interrupted by work.

      Numbers is not invited to join. Wrench even told him to go disposal the body and come back to pick him up when it's finished, but, when he sits at the table near the small TV on a side road bar, Numbers is sitting right across and ordering a whiskey, neat, and a beer for his friend (when did he start ordering for both of them?). The town they're in is a small one, the bar is not the cleanest of places, and even with the game already going halfway, it is far from a full house.

      A critical fumble made Wrench throw a fist hard on the table, to what beer and whiskey leaped into the air. Numbers hurried to hold the drinks before they would fall and told him if the man had been so scared of them just standing there, he would crap his pants seen Wrench losing a match. The other's answer to the provocation was to ask Numbers to shut up or leave, otherwise the next thing he would be beating would be his face. Numbers raised both hands in defeat and sign for peace, and continued to drink in silence. He did not care much about football, never had, always being more of a baseball or hockey kind of guy. But he sure isn't going to disposal the body alone, and the moments they have together that do not develop around work are scarce, so he stays. 

      It was a hard game, but Wrench's team wins. He and half the bar were standing, watching apprehensively, when in the last moments a touchdown assured them the victory. A collective cheering echoes loudly as the men jump and laugh. Wrench throws his arms in the air and toast with the men at the next table, celebrating with others fans for several minutes before returning to where he left Numbers drinking alone. Even not being a football fan, he insisted on toasting too and smiled excitedly at the contagious joy of the environment. They ordered more drinks. They didn't talk about the body in the trunk. That could wait for later. 

      Most of the customers took the party somewhere else a few beers later. Numbers was relieved to be able to hear again without all that shouting and singing. There was a time the only thing they would talk about was work, but that wall had enough cracks to try something different.

 _I didn't know you could talk_ , he signs to Wrench when the euphoria of victory is already being washed away by the drunkenness. The other blinks, slow, not sure he understood.  _When you were celebrating, you talked to the man with that ridiculous face painting._

      Maybe it's the drunkenness, but the answer comes with Wrench opening his mouth and vocalizing a complete sentence.

       "I can, but I don't like it," his voice is husky, not familiarize with being used, yet the words are understandable enough. Obviously, a manly voice in a manly man. Numbers froze before smiling. His partner never made much more than an annoyed sound when his guard was down before that. Wrench uses his hands to complete. _It's easier to sign. I don't know what I sound like, so it can be confusing._  He gives shoulders. _Makes people uncomfortable._

 _I'm sure people are uncomfortable around you in general and it has nothing to do with how you sound._  Wrench flip him a finger, but Numbers catch his smile moments before he covered it with the bottle of beer.  _You sound just fine._  It's probably a long shot, due to only listening to it for two seconds, but he feels like telling him that. _Actually, better than me._

 _You're a singer, how can I sound better than you?_ Numbers almost spit his drink at that comment and Wrench smile drunkenly down at him. _I watch you in the car. You like to sing, don't you? What do you sound like?_

 _Like a teenager boy._  He shrinks his face in a disgusted way; he hates how he sounds, that high nasal notes that never got deep and strong like they were supposed to after puberty.  _The hairiest man alive with the girliest shitty voice._

 _I can't picture it. You're shitting me._ That can't possibly be true. The man looks menacing. Everyone always listens to what he says terrified. Numbers shift on his plastic chair, join his eyebrows and Wrench makes a mental note about that being a sensitive subject to mess with him another time. Hell, may as well mess with him right now.  _Do you think your voice is girly because they cut off your dick?_

      His partner glare at him with a plain expression of sheer incredulity, eyebrows lowering over dark eyes turning red from the alcohol. Wrench thinks for a moment he will jump over the table, throwing a punch and taking them both and their drinks to the floor. But Numbers only laughs. Wrench smiles and takes a sip of his beer. It's easy to make him laugh nowadays, and he likes to do it. Every now and then, Numbers would hold a smile when Wrench asks him to translate a ridiculous statement in the middle of a job. They did it a lot before. It was their thing.

      Numbers stopped laughing and was now staring across the tiny table at him, a question floating behind his eyes.

      Wrench showed his palms.  _What?_

 _You..._ He hesitates, taping his fingers on the cup of whiskey before continuing.  _How can you talk if you can't hear?_

      Wrench roll his eyes in a theatrical way. It was a fair doubt, but he was done with answering deaf questions. He can go through his day without having to ask each hearing person he sees what is like to be able to hear, so why the other way around doesn't work is beyond him. Numbers don't ask much, the subject barely shows up, but he knows better than to think he doesn't care. It's just that Wes already answered to the whole questionary when they were kids. He didn't mind it then. It was enough having someone willing to talk to him in his language.

_I had a hearing aid when I was little._

      Numbers leaned back in the chair, eyes squeezed like he was trying to see past his partner. _No,_ he replied, shaking his head.  _I would remember it. Those things were huge back then._ And really expensive, but neither of them wants to be reminder of poverty.

_Fuck you, you don't know everything about my life._

_Yes, I do._

      No, he didn't, but he was smiling - a real one, not a threatening one -, so Wrench couldn't get mad and let the joke pass. His soft spot for a handsome man's smile was just one of the many things Grady could never know about his life.

 _Some teachers pitch in and bought one for me. Mom told me to hide it because she used to have one, but dad sold it. I think he paid some debts or something, I don't know. When he got to mine, he just bought lots of tequila. T-E-Q-U-I-L-A. Tequila._ Even now, he still took some time to spell words he finds to be too specific from remembering for the first time.

      Numbers didn't know it was possible to hate his friend's father more than he has hated him his whole life. Sometimes, he thought he hated the man more than Wes did. He didn't know how Wrench was capable of telling that story and just shake his shoulders and drink his beer like his life hadn't been a shitshow thanks to that asshole. If he hadn't beat him up so much, if he hadn't killed Wes' mother and made him so troublesome no one would have him but the State, he wouldn't be in foster care in the first place. But if he is playing guilty, Grady was the one who was too selfish not to go after him, fill him with his problems as if he hadn't a collection of them on his own, and insist in running away or going to the playground pretend nothing happened. Things are what they are. They are who they are. He thinks about the body in the trunk.

 _Lots of male singers have high voices_ , Wrench is back to arguing.

      Numbers blinks and for a moment can't focus on what he is saying, too occupied with fighting an inner battle to ask Wrench if he knows if his father is still alive, because Mr. Sniffer is still in town, they could go ask him for help on that and track the man down. They could do it right now. He is dangerously close on asking if he wants Grady to kill the bastard for him, or if he wants him to tie the fucker on a chair and put a knife on Wes' hand and tell him it's okay, that this is his present to him, that he is sorry for letting him alone all those years, that it is never happening again, that Grady would be right there to clean up as soon as it ended. But Wrench would not like any of that, so Numbers drinks his whiskey instead and tag along with the previous topic.

_I'm not a singer. Making some tunes is a sad middle-age hobby, doesn't mean I'm any good at it._

      Wrench snorts. _You are not even thirty._

 _You don't know how much I will live for, maybe this is my middle-age._  Something crosses his mind, and he tries to look impassive as signing it.  _We could buy you a hearing aid, so you would know for sure how girly I sound._

      It is the first thing he said that night that made the drunk smile come out of his partner's face. Numbers immediately regret it.

 _I don't need one._ Neither his expression or the force in his gestures are welcoming friendship anymore. There are two possibilities on the table for how he can handle it: Numbers could ignore the anger growing on his partner and change the subject to never come back on it, or he could press the wound; the later always developing into a black eye.

_I'm not saying you do. Whatever. But I'm not that good with music in general. I'm good at what I do and what I do is killing people._

_Bad people_ , Wrench objects. Numbers just shrugs and drinks.

They've had that discussion a few times before, about the morality of what they do and whatever they could be considered bad people for stuffing mobsters, smugglers and murderers into holes on ice. It's not the kind of discussion to have on a good day or the soft topic he was trying to slide in. Numbers don't respond to avoid extending it.

      He knows he is a bad man, has known it even before he was a man, when the boy he was smiled at someone being shot in front of his face while Wes stood there in shock, and he was so excited to give in and beat everything he could to be, to _feel_ , in control. But he doesn't like to let himself go that way. He looks around the bar. Some men on the other side are casting strange glances at them and laughing. Numbers hold his gaze for a while, trying to figure out exactly what's going on there.

_Are those guys laughing at us?_

      Wrench glances briefly.  _They are probably mocking the asshole who wears a suit to watch the game at a bar._

 _This cow-house should be happy to be graced with the presence of my suit_. Wrench smiled at it and signed a  _sure_ , getting up to pick more beer. At least he was smiling again.

      As Wrench moves away from the table, Numbers watched for a minute before going back to that crew of men he had glared before, just to have something else to look at. And then he sees it.

      Next thing he knows, he's getting up with the empty bottle of beer on his hand and walking through the bar to the group. He clears his throat to them. He asks them to repeat what they were doing moments ago to his face. They repeat it. Numbers lifts the bottle he was carrying and breaks it to the head of the first one he can reach, the man falls, bleeding, Numbers flipping the table and cutting someone's flesh in the mess that comes with it. He's going on the four guys with an angry shout and being thrown back at another table, bottles crashing to the floor. Someone hold him still while other men punch his face. The punches stop, he opens his eyes and Wrench is casting kicks and punches like a fucking ninja in a fringed jacket. Numbers calculate if it's worth it to pull his gun. Fuck it. He pulls his Glock out from the holster and points it to the one who is coming at him with a piece of glass. The man throws his hands in the air and steps back.

      The firing of a shotgun blast loud in the bar, and, by reflex, everyone bows down. Everyone, except Wrench. He turns to the bar owner, who is aiming a shotgun at Numbers after firing to the ceiling and shouting something.

      Fast thinking is required. Things are happening. Numbers pulled out a bar fight and is carrying an unlicensed weapon. The bar owner will probably call the cops. There is a dead man in their trunk. Shit. Wrench pulls his own pistol out and shoots the man behind the counter to the head. Or tries to. Too drunk to aim right, the bullet goes to his shoulder instead. But he doesn’t stay to see what will happen next. Taking advantage of the moment of shock among the presents, he pulls Numbers off the broken tables and runs away. Some bullets fly in their direction, two or three men run behind the car when they speed up on the road, but none continues the chase.

      They stop ten minutes later in an empty parking lot at the back of a closed mall and get out of the car, breathes still racing.

 _What the fuck?!_ Wrench signs exacerbated. His forehead was bleeding and he knew his eye would be black by the morning. Numbers was pacing on the other side, not looking at him. He punches the car to get the other's attention. _Did they had cameras?_

 _No,_  he answered in a brief sharp gesture.  _First thing I checked when we came in._

_What about across the street? Other buildings?_

_I don't think so._

_You don't think so?!_ Wrench pushes him furiously against the car. _You pulled your gun and you don't think so? You know better than not to "think so". We will have to go back and clean this shit now. Fuck you! I just wanted to watch the game, drink some beers and drive home, but everything with you just HAVE to be a mess. You keep saying you don't do messes, but you're a mess! What the fuck is your problem?!_

      "You know I can't follow when you sign this fast, this is a waste of our time". Neither of them understood what the other was trying to say, Numbers speaking aloud and Wrench hands going too wild.

      The series of offenses only came to an end when Numbers rolled his eyes and went to the back of the car to take off the plate. After a moment, Wrench joined him, going to the front. They picked new ones from a pack under the seat and did the trade in silence. Wrench finished his side first and sat on the car hood, cleaning the blood from his face with a rag. Numbers appears a minute later, handling his partner a flask. The sip goes down like fire; it's more whiskey. He gave it back, Numbers drinks it and sits at Wrench's side. They do this sharing of the flask a couple times. The parking lot is empty, dark and cold.

_Do I get to know what I shot that guy for?_

_The excitement of being alive?_ Wrench threw him a look. Numbers took a long sip before putting the flask down to give a serious answer.  _Assholes where making fun of us._

 _That's not true. They were making fun of me._ His companion's eyes widened, looking a mix of shocked and constrained.  _I saw that long before you did. I don't really mind it, and even if I did, you don't get to pull shit like this._

      Numbers lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply, looking at Wrench's bruised face for a long time, holding something behind his habitual frown, something Wrench couldn't make any sense of. He made two signs.  _I mind._

 _Clearly, you just pulled a fight with four men out of it._ Numbers laughed. _You always do this._

      The  _always_ sign got him wondering what Wrench have meant. Was he talking about his fuck ups? How he had the Midas Touch in reverse and everything he touches turns into crap? How they can't do anything together apart from killing and hurting people because of Numbers behavior? Or was it something older? Was it about the fighting? He had always respond badly to people mocking his friend, and Wrench always had to come to his rescue when Numbers was the one trying to help and got his ass kicked in the process. Or maybe it wasn't about him. It was about Numbers hating on anyone who would dare hurt his friend. He couldn't do anything about the past, but he was there now.

_Is this your strange way of saying you like me?_

      Numbers shot a laughter into the night once more. He laughs until it turns into a smile.

      He rests the cigarette on his mouth to sign  _I guess you're not that bad of a -_  and starts to do something that seems like the  _friend_  sign, but changed his mind in the middle - _partner._

      They drank in silence for a little while, passing the flask hand to hand. It was a quiet night there, the memories of the fight already being vanished by the serenity of a cold wind. At some point, Wrench felt something pressing on his shoulder, the familiar smell of smoke and cologne really close. He did not turn his head or said anything, he didn't move, just sat there feeling the warm touch until the weight on his shoulder was gone. Numbers lifted from the hood saying they should burn the car with the body inside and stole a drive home. Wrench agreed.

 

* * *

PART IX

_The sign for B-O-U-N-D-A-R-I-E-S is made with your pinkie, not a middle finger_

* * *

 

      Wrench counted the bills out of the yellow envelope again. He could feel sharp eyes watching him close, the impatience building up, but choose to ignored it in favor of not losing count. Even so, he finish it to the same result.

 _Something wrong?_ Numbers tapped his elbow and asks when his partner looked down at him.

      Hardly he would call it wrong, but definitely something was odd. One year and a half working for Fargo and for the first time the ritual of counting their payment caught something irregular. Wrench glared forward, where Alderman had her arms crossed inside the car waiting for them to finish. They always meet at different spots to get their money, but it was always Alderman who came, the several low bills stuffed inside the same yellow envelopes, an impatient look on her face as if she had many things to take care of - she probably did - and their slow counting was unnecessary and insulting. Wrench asked himself if others assets did it, of if it was just them getting that rampant look every single time. The woman didn't intimidate him, but deeper instincts on his gut pulsed in alarm under that gaze.

 _It's too much._ And he was not going to risk getting a cent from Fargo beyond what they owe him. He hunted down enough men who did it to know it was a stupid idea.

      Numbers sighed, covering his eyes with one hand. He look up again to say something aloud to the accountant in the other car. She leaves without bothering on replying.

      As soon as they were left alone in the cross road, Numbers turned back to his partner. His hands explain that now they split the money equally. He made the sign for fifty two times.  _50/50._  Then one hand slid over the other and he gets both down at the sides of his body. _Partners._

 

      The clean and simple delivery turned into hell faster than Numbers could say "your friend is an undercover pig", but not fast enough for prevent the look he shared with his partner turning into Wrench pulling his pistol and shooting the deal off. The call to Fargo later was a cringe one; they could do whatever they wanted, but _"for fucks sake don't you two shoot a fucking cop on us!"_   because _"you kill a cop and you don't even bother to come back here with your retarded boyfriend, you fucking idiot!"_.

      Numbers grip around the phone tightens as he calmly go through his reply. Sometimes, the job was just plain hard.

      He never met the moron screaming at him. Some new administrator? Someone in charge of that operation? Whatever. If the guy couldn't maintain composure at the first emergency falling in his lap, he wasn't going to be around enough for putting a face on the name.

      "We'll keep it clean", was what he said. "Oh, and call Mr. Wrench that again you will find out how clean we can be, right?".

      He was talking about the retarded part, but it would work for the other one too.

      So they had to hunt the snitch who put the cop there in the first place. Complications in the way end up with Numbers being shot, the police showing up on the warehouse, six bodies, the biggest bag of coke Wrench ever saw in his life and they burning their car for the second time in less than two months. It was seen in too many crime scenes. Although that worked fine the other time, they still had to pay Numbers' guy for the lost vehicle if he wanted his corolla back, meaning the costs of that assignment were pretty much on the same page with the earnings. It was not worth it. But they were there, it was their reputation involved, they would clean it up.

      Even so, it was definitely not worth it doing the stupidest thing they ever did so far: break in the headquarters of the local PD to stole case files. Turns out the police had a clear picture of Numbers after he got shot; Wrench was inside the car the whole time that night, he didn't showed. They burned it along with the car and the snitch. The man screamed his lungs out inside the trunk as the fire slowly ended his life in suffering. Numbers smiled, proud of himself for finally killing that piece of shit who had the nerve to shot him and almost got them both arrested. Wrench's face contorted to the smell.

      The beard had to go. He shaved on a public restroom and arranged his hair down the forehead. The painful part was dumping the expensive fitted suit on a bin and waking out in khaki pants and the most ridiculous green sweater Wrench managed to shoplift. The fake glasses were probably over the top, but for years he didn't stand that close to being arrested and he was not taking any chances on going down in case some cop with more than two neurons did a sketch on his face. Besides, it made Wrench smile for the first time since it all began. He said Numbers looked like a librarian. Numbers shot back his hamster cheeks were probably too distracting to read next to.

      Deciding to take the bus was the only easy argument in what seemed like a year, but was just a few days. Both men were too tired to deal with the complications of stealing a car. A red stain was showing at the sides of Numbers cheap khakis, the wound still sore. He wouldn't be able to drive anyway. Wrench sat him down a bench and went to play charades in the counter to buy their tickets. When he came back, his partner was stubbornly standing, although leaning against the wall as he talked to someone on the payphone.

 _Fargo?_   Wrench asks as soon as he hung up. They have a custom sign for the Syndicate now, the letter F coming down mixing with the sign for pistol. It wasn't that creative, but did the job.

_Yes. Told them it's done and we'll be late for pick up the payment this time. I need to rest._

      Wrench said nothing, which with him was the same as agreeing. Numbers looked like shit.

      As the adrenaline of that dog's job cooled down, their bodies began to ache. Numbers was suffering more. Wrench caught him making painful faces and dancing around to try on ease the strain on his wounded leg. Probably the patching work there was lousy. As much as Numbers said he didn't need a real doctor, Wrench was still worried about an infection. Having to take a bullet out of his friend's leg at the back of a Mercedes wasn't something all the medical books prepared him for. They had being stabbed, punched, choked and one time Wrench was thrown from the top of a ladder, but none of them had ever being shot. At least not since they are working together.

      The backseat was covered in Numbers' blood the last time Wrench looked at it, as were his hands and clothes. The way his body shook as if he was screaming, feet involuntarily kicking, when Wrench put two fingers inside the wound to feel the bullet stuck on him. What a goddamn awful night it was. Numbers made a fist around the front of his shirt as he put the flesh back together, teeth bared, and kept it there for a long time after Wrench finished. His breath was quick and came in hot waves against the side of his neck, the smell was from sweat, blood and cigarettes. Wrench didn't realize they were holding each other until Numbers pushed him away and signed for  _take us out of here_ _._  

      The night bus arrived around 8:00 PM. Again, Numbers made a painful face and suppressed a hiss trying to get up on his own. Wrench finally got enough of that shit and came over to help him to his feet. He jumped, made a movement to complain as one arm pulled at his waist, but whatever he was trying to sign Wrench ignored and kept holding until they got on the bus and sat down. It was the same bus, to Numbers' town, and none of them said anything about that.

      He wasn't complaining or fighting anymore as Wrench hold his waist and guided his limping partner to the elevator of his building, or when dragged him to his bedroom and lowered Numbers onto the bed before turning off the lights and closing the door. He set up the couch for himself and slept all night for the first time in days, knowing for now they would be safe.

      Wrench made breakfast the next morning, which was a challenge, since almost everything on the fridge was expired and Numbers' kitchen was alien to him. The eggs and toast were alright, but the tea turn out undrinkable. No one would ever know the results of Wrench's first attempt to make tea, because he quickly threw it all in the sink. He eat alone when got tired of waiting for company. Numbers didn't woke up until past noon. They went out for lunch at a nice restaurant down the street, stopped for groceries at the same place as last time on the way back, Numbers made latkes for diner because he felt like it and, for Wrench, they tasted even better than the ones his mother used do make.

      That night he slept on the couch again, as he did the night before and as he would do the night after. Wrench felt something he hasn't felt in so many years it took him days to understand what it was. Comfort.

      The fifth day, they debated about whenever Al Pacino was his best in Godfather or Scarface. It ended with a search through a box of VHS because Numbers could swear he had stolen both from a guy's house many jobs before. He only found the Scarface tape. It didn't have captions, so Numbers kept the lights on and made an awkward simultaneous translation that Wrench didn't ask for and was more entertaining than elucidating. The interpreter job tired him down not even twenty minutes in, so he stopped. Maybe the mix of beer and painkillers had something to do with why his signs were so clumsy that evening, or why he was sitting so close. Wrench run out of reasons to look at him other than the TV, so he watched the movie.

      Tony Montana's life was crashing down when the painkillers and beer won the battle and Wrench looked to his side as he felt a poke on his shoulder. Numbers had fallen asleep. His mouth was full open and a taint of drool grew on Wrench's sleeve. He looked exhausted; Wrench didn't have it in him to wake him up. Without a rash reminder that staring was a rude thing to do, he stared. His face was already growing the beard back. Some time passed until he realized the blue light making everything drowsy meant the movie ended. Wrench finally managed to look at something other than his sleeping partner, finding himself creepy, afraid to fall asleep too, asking himself what was he doing.

      A couple more minutes and some shaking and coaching, Numbers was lying on his bed. He said something in that thin place between awake and asleep from heavy medication, but as Wrench was avoiding look at his lips, the message didn't arrived.

      That night, he woke up on the couch to a painful boner and laid there for minutes, ignoring, waiting the thing to go away. He wouldn't dare to do it now, not there, not on his apartment, not wearing a borrowed pair of shorts and shirt, his borrowed sheets that smelled like his skin, his borrowed pillow that smelled like his hair. Wrench got up and locked himself in the bathroom. He came quick in the shower, like before, and smoked two of Numbers' menthol cigarettes on the balcony before going back to the couch.

      He noticed a toolbox next to the leaking sink in the kitchen the next morning. It seemed like a good way to make himself useful. Some part of him thought it was kind of fair trade, like it was fine for him to jerk off to his friend's lips every time he shaved his beard (but wasn't the shaving, was it? How many times he caught himself wondering if that beard would feel as soft as it felt in his fingers when between his tights?) or woke up with a hard on for a wet dream where those lips found their way to his cock, if Wrench could just fix his damn kitchen sink. Another part of him knew it wasn't. He ignored that part.

      Numbers was sitting at the kitchen's table when Wrench got up from under the sink, chewing on some cookies and sipping at a more drinkable version of that first attempt to make tea. For the amount of tea left, he was there, quietly watching, for a very long time. His hair pointed everywhere, his face had bed sheets marks, the gray t-shirt from something called _Strangeways, Here We Come_ had stains on it and his wounded leg was resting on another chair. Wrench knew he was peaking at a version of his partner very few people had come to know. Wrench knew they were dangerously close to breaking that wall now.

 _I tried to fix it, but only made it worst._ He said with his hands, mouth full; being able to do that without being rude was only one of the many perks of being fluent in sign language.

 _I could tell._ The man had glued duct tape to everything and Wrench almost laugh imagining how frustrated he must have gotten for not being able to fix a sink. Numbers hated to fail, he hated not to be in control of the room.  _You don't have a landlord to call on this?_

_Not since he is almost kicking me out for delayed rent._

      Wrench frowned. Numbers told him the deal he had with the man - cash only, six weeks in advance, a good amount over market price for dropping legal paperwork and not asking questions. It was expensive, but he could afford it just fine. The change on the payment settings meant Numbers was getting paid less and could no longer afford it just as fine, not when over it they still had to pay for the two cars they burned the past months. Wrench would offer him money, but he knew he would be called names for it, so he didn't. Instead, he watched the other complaining about how annoying it was to have to move after so many time and effort building a fake identity and a life at that place for a perfect alibi, how he couldn't exactly look for a flatmate in the paper and didn't really wanted to kill salesman Adam Denenberg yet, but needed the landlord to shut up before he pulled out the card about Numbers paying cash only and avoiding legal papers. If he did that, he would have to kill him. If he killed him, he would have to move out the city entirely. The whole headache was just shit.

      The next day, they drove to Fargo to get their money.

      The return was not for Numbers' place, but Wrench's. Numbers stared at him inside the car, the sunglasses bright by the warm red light of a sun still rising, and moved his hands.

_Do you want to move in to my place?_

      Wrench answered nothing, only blinked.

 _It's better than this shithole. Closer to Fargo. It would be cheaper on rent and gas for both of us. You could have the spare room. Have some time to think if you want, but it's a great deal._  He smiled, a brief and playful curling of lips. _And I'm a good cook._

      When he finally moved to give an answer, Wrench's thoughts hadn't yet catch up with the fist knocking two times in the air as if it had a will on it's own, deciding long before he could stop himself that  _yes_.

 

      When they were on an assignment together, Wrench could label around four most common stages of his coexistence with Numbers.

      He made the list on the first night, when Numbers was helping him assemble the bed but suddenly stopped to run out of the room. Wrench didn't think much of it, it could be anything from someone knocking at the door, the microwave beeping or he just needed to go to the bathroom really quick. It was neither. He came back with a cellphone on his ear and the look on his face told it was Fargo.

 _We are needed in Bismark_ , he signed with eyebrows furrowed, a fast glance around to the few boxes holding all Wrench had in life. Funny thing to know his twenty seven years fit in a single trip to the elevator and nothing there was indispensable. If it had been necessary to leave all inside the old flat behind, Wrench wouldn't had flinched. He had his pistol, his jacket and his partner, he didn't need anything else. Hell, he could even drop the Bren Ten and the Richards-Mason behind, never being one to have guns as pets.

 _How about your leg?_ Numbers was still limping from the shot.

 _It's fine._  It wasn't. _No detective work, just a shot to the head. Hitman work at it's finest._  He smiled as saying it, like it was their dream job and they were tired of doing fuck up delivery and extortion because Tripoli didn't need people dead as often, and they still had bills to pay, so they would take anything despite their real talent and passion being killing people. Wrench scowled. _You drive. We pick up from where we left this mess when we come back._ He hesitated on the doorway to not-a-guest-room-but-Wrench's-room, tapped his hand on the wood a few times, biting his lower lip as concluding.  _I made some space on the shelf for your books._

      It was that, that moment, that made Wrench realize the walls were already down.

      Wrench didn't know what to expect to happen now, so he did what he was trained to do and put together the information he had to make sense of the new scenario he was entering. What he had was his coexistence with Mr. Numbers. From it, four general moods.

      The most common one was probably indifference. It filled the silence in the car on a long drive, it sunk at boring stakeouts, it gloomered around the diners where they stop to eat, it was there at late nights shared in cheap motel rooms, when Wrench polished his boots while Numbers cleaned his Glock on the table. It was alright.

The next most commm wasn't as alright: anger. The fighting and dagger glares thrown as the job unfold were often brought up by Numbers constantly retaining information or failing to interpret for Wrench. At least they didn't do it until it got physical in a long time. The discussions usually ended with a push to the chest, an angry slap, Numbers' personal favorite of closing his eyes, turning his back and/or walking away. Wrench's personal favorite was punching and breaking things.

      The other two were playfulness (normally good) and sadness (always bad).

      Playful was the ideal mood, playful was when they weren't trying to kill each other and did their most efficient jobs, playful was when they had fun and felt like they could keep going on like this forever. Sadness was the exact opposite. Sadness was the rarest and Wrench's personal hell. They never discuss it, because talk about it means recognize vulnerability.

      They did the job on Bismark in only one night. Numbers made a clean shot, Wrench carried the body and drove. By morning they were on Fargo to report and get paid, by night they were back on their apartment. Wrench figured living with him wouldn't be much different from that. Sometimes, it already felt like they did, the motel rooms and multiple different cars being their home. As they resume putting the bed together and agreed to let the rest for tomorrow and just rest that trip off their bodies, Grady signed him good night. Wes closed the door to his new bedroom and for the first time in over a decade felt like he had a place in the world.

      Yes, this was more than alright.

      He woke up the next morning to the sunlight burning through closed eyelids. In the back of his mind, a memory of Numbers saying that was going to happen if they didn't put the curtains up flashed to him, and Wrench being an ass telling him he hadn't such a delicate sleep routine. Numbers had thrown his hands in the air before signing  _fine, asshole, good night._

      Yawning, Wrench got up and made his way to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee. If experience taught him anything, it was that Numbers wouldn't be awake until past noon. His partner never sleeps more than three of four hours on the job, but he hibernates like bear when back home.

      The most surprising thing was not to face the kitchen busy when Wrench turned the hallway - the same scent of pancakes from the first time he slept there got him when opened the door -, the most surprising thing was to face Numbers cooking while singing something and swinging on his heels in a dancing rhythm. Wrench stopped, looked around, torn between standing there and waiting for Numbers to embarrassingly notice his presence, or catch his attention. After a moment, he was more bashful than entertained by it, so opted for the last and tapped twice on the kitchen counter with his knuckles. Numbers turned so fast Wrench only saw the gun when it was pointed at the spot between his eyes. He threw his hands up quickly, instinctively taking a step back.

      "Oh shit!", he saw him shout, the killing rush on dark eyes fading away as Numbers lowered the gun as fast as he raised it.

 _You have a gun with you when you are cooking?!_ Wrench signed back, his nose flattered and heart beating fast.  _What the fuck?!_

 _Sorry!_ Numbers let out a heavy sigh and put the gun away. He run a hand through his face and scratched one eye.  _I don't know why this is here._ _My mind get fucked sometimes when I can't get any sleep. Sorry. I forgot about you._

      They stared at each other across the kitchen. Wrench's anger turned into concern. He hadn't sleep  _anything_ last night?

      Numbers leaned in the sink. He took a mug and drank whatever it was, still staring at Wrench.  _You are the one for me, fatty,_ he signed.

      Wrench made a face. He looked down, to himself, where the wife beater he wore to sleep and forgot to change to a proper shirt marked the muscles of his torso, and then back to his partner.

      Numbers suppressed a laugh and rolled his eyes.  _Not you! The song playing now!_

      When the confused look on his face didn't go away, Numbers humphed and pointed at the cover over the counter at reach. Wrench took a moment scowling at him and licked at his lips before turning to get the thing. Of course it wasn't him. At the sight of the album, it was his time to laugh. Numbers shot him a  _what_ , so he showed it and tapped the title printed on Morrissey's forehead.  _Beethoven Was Deaf_. Numbers smiled wild.

_Come on, sit, I will make more pancakes. Coffee is there, if you want._

_So this is the guy you stole the hairstyle from?_ Numbers flipped him a finger before going back to the stove. His hair was already up and sculpted to perfection that morning, which made sense if he really didn't sleep a thing.

      Wrench sat down at the table and got himself a cup of coffee. When Numbers was back to put a plate of pancakes in front of him, he felt a touch on the top of his head and looked up to see Numbers running his fingers through his curls for a moment before pulling away and sitting on the other chair. He didn't look again, and with their hands occupied, they eat in silence. After breakfast, they would be back to disassemble the boxes.

 

      They would know, in that first month, things were not the same on the road and inside an apartment.

      As the moods go, the indifference part was almost the same. In those lazy days Fargo didn't called, they mostly sleep or hang around the common area. Sometimes, Wrench reads by the balcony while Numbers play something on the couch, or they watch TV together. It's feels a little different, though, to raise his head and don't see Mr. Numbers cleaning his weapons or a bloody suit in the motel sink, but Grady listening to his few records or messing around with the Polaroids, taking picture of nothing in particular, but entertaining himself with the task in hand.

      Anger was not that bad, not really wrath and big fights, but little daily irritations appearing in the adaptation period. It was not a surprise Numbers could be a lot protective of his space. Sometimes, Wrench joked that he should get  _boundaries_ tattooed on his chest. He said he may get one day if it would make easier for Wrench to remind of not to drink the fucking milk straight to the fucking bottle because he didn't want to taste his gross spit. It ended with Wrench going out to buy a second bottle of milk and throwing it to his head, Numbers ducking in time to save himself, but the same couldn't be said to the wall behind.

      "What the fuck, man? What is your problem?!" he screamed, pointing at the mess.  _Was it worth it? I'm not cleaning this up!_

 _Worth as hell_ , Wrench answered with a smug smile as he made his way to the kitchen to get a bucket.

      The anger at home easily transitioned into playful to Wrench, but Numbers could still sulk for hours, often closing himself in his room like a teenager making a scene. He didn't ask Wrench to leave, though. He always came out late at night to smoke in the balcony. If Wrench caught it, they would share a couple beers. Wrench didn't want to leave, so he was glad Numbers never told him to.

      Playful one was still mostly good. When he is in the right mood, Numbers cook big delicious meals and talk non-stop about anything. They trade jokes; Wrench picks on his friend addiction to junk food (which he assumed being a road habit, but the man was crazy for Cheetos, cookies and such things, the smell of Scrunyuns reeking all over the place until he could open a window), Numbers shots back that with the amount of fried shit Wrench eats, isn't a bullet that is going to kill him. He says he doesn't know how Numbers isn't fat yet, but he knows. His partner isn't a model of health, he smokes too much and is stoned or drunk most nights, but at least he goes for a run every morning, a camera on his neck and the Sig Sauer hidden on his pants. If is too cold or slippery outside, he doesn't bother and stays in. Wrench moves the couch for his own routine, some push-ups and sit-ups, and can feel Numbers' eyes staring from the kitchen. Sometimes, the sun is up and the sidewalks are clean, but Numbers stays indoor. Wrench likes to be in good shape, he is mostly the one who has to carry weight and there is something just plain disturbing about a giant strong man who glare at you but won't talk. He learned it in prison and kept the lesson for life. People don't mess with you if they think you can break their noses - and he could, he has.

      If the sad on was bad on the job, it was way worst home. However, that wasn't something that occurred often, so Wrench pushed it to the back of his mind and pretend it never happened until it did.

      Some sorrow showed eventually on the job. It was inevitable. The work doesn't exactly comes with a job description, but somethings are just not what they signed up to. Wrench usually embraced it, told himself that meant he was still human. He could still take things. He could still feel like shit for that one time they had to bury a kid. It hadn't been their shot, but they had to clean the evidence anyway. A dead kid would bring too much attention, a kid missing along his shitty parents ( _that_ was their shot) not so much. Numbers was the one who dig in the kid's body and took out the bullet. A part of him sensed Wrench had to know, so he would get it for him. He saw the way his partner's shoulders relaxed and let out a sigh, Numbers turning his way to confirm it wasn't theirs. Later, Wrench's gut was heavy to Numbers getting the little lump of sheets from the back seat. They didn't talk about it, just sat at a gas station, drank a whole bottle of gin and passed out in the car. The boy must have been five or six years old. It was the first time it happened, and the first time Wrench understood why Numbers didn't sleep. He was awake for a week after that.

      The second time was when they were supposed to play bodyguard to a guy the Syndicate was buying information from. He was not to be trust, a professional rat, but as his cover on a job for them was blown, the man needed protection. Best ranked hitmen than Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers were assigned to take care of the treats; they heard Jergen himself was on the field. It must be big.

      Frank Guzik was a talker, chatting all night while Numbers just hummed in return, until he said something that got his partner's eyes wide. Wrench saw Numbers' fingers turning white and just knew what he was going to do even before he would stand up and shoots the guy in the face. After the body dropped, Numbers almost ran out of the room. Wrench found him sitting in the dark inside one of the house's rooms, hands covering his face, and as soon as he heard the door opening Numbers lifted his head to shout for Wrench to get out.

      So Wrench sat on their car outside and waited for him to come back on his own time. It took him fifteen minutes to walk to where Wrench was, leaning in the car, smoking a cigarette. Smoking always helped when there's thinking to do, and fortunately Numbers always had a pack on the glove compartment. Wrench gave him the cigarette when the other was close enough. He took it, sketching a thanks aloud, and made a movement to give it back after a drag. Wrench raised his hand. _Keep it_.

 _We have to clean this_ _._  He start signing once the cigarette is over, not looking Wrench in the eyes since he shot the person they were told to keep alive. _Hide the body. We could say someone got here. M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A did it._

      Wrench showed him the sign for Minnesota. Silly thing doing it now. It didn't matter now. But Numbers repeated it, and it felt good to be in control of his own hands again.

 _I'm going to ask you only one thing,_ was what Wrench said back. A long pause happened between that and Numbers giving him permission with a light nod.  _Someone can link him to you? I need you to think._

 _No._  The answer was fast, too fast. He shifted on his feet under the glare the other gave to it, signing  _think_ once more. All it takes is one mistake. But Numbers was sure.  _I never met that man before in my life._

      Wrench took another cigarette from the pack. He believed Numbers. The cigarette was for him, which he took without hesitance. Wrench made a barrier with his other hand against the cold wind, then lit it for him, smoke coming out of his nose in a big cloud.

 _That's what happened,_ Wrench turned in his direction, tapped him in the arm to make sure he was watching, and went through the plan he came up with.Numbers crossed his arms as Wrench explained, signs slower than usual to make sure not one word would pass unread.  Wrench found himself not surprised to see his bookish partner following his lead without a question for a change.

      There’s the thing about them: Mr. Numbers is a planner. Always has been, even when he was called Grady, Aaron, Jerry, Adam. He would write big lists before going to the market and read every file before heading to a new job. He knew all Fargo’s operations like he knew the scars on his body. He depended on it. He was alive because of it. He felt safe like this. But when things didn’t go as planned, he could do really fucked up straight forward stupid things. He was not an improviser. He did not do well on impulse, but did the kind of fucked up straight forward stupid things that got people like them arrested or killed. But not Mr. Wrench. What Wrench has always been, even when he was called Wes, was a survivor. He had those kinds of sharp green eyes that could distingue the shades of trouble for miles away. He would outlive them all. And if he wasn't, that's fine by him.

      When he was done talking, Numbers took another drag of the cigarette, then nodded. Wrench nodded back. They have dealt with emergencies before, but not like that, not because of one of them.

_Ready?_

      Numbers put a hand up -  _wait -_ and took one last smoke before putting the butt out with his foot. His eyes were closed when he gave the sign to let Wrench know he was ready. The punch knocked him from balance and he fell over the snow, a curse slipping his lips.  _Shit_. It was way more force than he was expecting, but they had to make it believable, didn't they? Numbers raised to his feet, spitting blood over the snow, and jumped on Wrench, pushing him against the car, throwing a punch, a kick with his knee on the stomach, then climbing to him when another punch came. It ended fast. When he opened his hand, a few fringes from that hideous piece of clothing fell from it.

 _Sorry._ Wrench shook his shoulders and waved his hand, as if saying for him not to worry about it.

      He grabbed Wrench's arm as the other made a move to get inside the car. Numbers hands moved a few times, not completing any of the signs he started, and Wrench understood. Taking the hand out of his arm, he told Grady he didn't need to know. It didn't matter. Partners. Numbers said something aloud, and that he could read just fine. _Thank you_. Before entering the car, Wrench gave him a hug. He wasn't counting, but it felt way past the five second mark. It was another thing none of them ever talked about.

      There were times the sadness part wasn't related to the job. These times were not crashing, but shameful. They could talk about these, just choose not to. It was brought with a sense of nostalgia. When this kind came, they shared a beer.

      Most times, when sadness happened in the apartment, they locked themselves on their respective rooms.

      The first bad one came with a phone call the third week they were living together. His cell buzzed over the table and Numbers looked at the display, frowned, then got up quickly. He went to the balcony to answer. Wrench though Numbers was talking to someone from the Syndicate, but it became clear something was off when he starts pacing around, holding his hair between white fingers, anxious and somehow mad. Wrench didn't ask. He had listened to his partner's request for boundaries many times now and knew better.

      The phone call lasted half an hour. Wrench was sitting on the couch, watching a documentary on the wild life when he felt Numbers crashing besides him. His leg was mostly fine, he didn't need to lean on things that much, but he got the habit of doing so. He leaned over Wrench's shoulder on the couch, as he sometimes did when they cook or did the dishes or crushed themselves together in the balcony because Wrench was reading there and Numbers decided he wanted do smoke right now. Wrench never says anything about it, or about the times when they drink beer and chat and suddenly the chat is gone and they're just... there. It was a similar feeling to that night they got into a bar fight and Numbers pressed against his shoulder for several minutes, and exactly as that night, he's gone before Wrench could think much about it.

 _It was mom_ , he signed, then waited expectant for Wrench to say something, but the other could only stare. _She calls sometimes._

 _I didn't realize you keep in touch with your family._ It was a really stupid thing to do, but Numbers must know that.

 _I don't._ His eyes shift around the living room before meeting Wes again.  _But I call to give my new number in case she needs to reach out. She always end up calling to stupid things. I should stop giving her my number, don't you think?_

 _Not making this decision for you,_ was what he replied. For a moment, the way Grady looked at him made him think he got offended somehow, but then he sighed and nodded. His back returned to the couch as he sunk in, staring at the ceiling, one hand scratching that weird dog head tattooed on his arm. Sometimes, Wrench almost asked what was that about, whose dog is it, why was he leaning on the couch when he could lean on his shoulder again. He tapped the remote to make a noise and get his attention.  _What she wanted?_

      The only reason he asked was because Numbers brought it up, he was there, he must want do talk about it. He shifted and looked away like he didn't. It took a few moments for him to snort and turn back to Wes, a smile on his lips meeting his eyes for a change.

_I'm an uncle._

      Wrench smiled back with the corner of his mouth and signed a mockery  _congratulations,_ to what the other rolled his eyes. They sat in silence for a while, eyes on the wild life documentary. The TV was on mute and the captions on, something about how in order to hunt their pray, predators evolved to see more shades of green. Numbers touched his arm for Wrench to look at him.

_She gets worried I'm all alone._

      Wrench turned his upper body on the couch. He signs nothing, knowing it would be too much if he did, and hoping his gaze and fingers touching his wrist over the cushion aside are enough to send the message. Grady nodded like he gets it. He is not alone.

 

      The neighbor named Susan is nice. Wrench don't see her often, but they do small talk whenever their paths connect. She has a name sign for him, the gesture for  _tall_ over the shoulder like the fringes on his jacket. Wrench likes his other name sign better. _Wrench_ made with a W other than two fingers making a V. Wes-Wrench. Grady gave him that one. Wes returned the favor: the sign for _numbers_ made with two letters G. Grady-Numbers. They were drunk, making name signs no one will ever use, but it felt like himself more than anything did anymore. The first time Susan shows him that on the elevator, he gives a half-smile and sign for  _nice_ with one hand, the other carrying groceries.

      That morning she is asking what happened to his head while Wrench helps her taking bags out of the trunk. She can't see Numbers trying to sneak inside the building with a M249 poorly hidden underneath his coat. Wrench couldn't tell her he knocked a guy over with his head while they fought for the gun his partner is now climbing the service stairs with, so he tells instead the sidewalk is icy and she should be careful.

      When Wrench finish helping and head back to their apartment, Numbers is hiding the new machine gun over the kitchen cabinet.

 _Really? This is the best you could think of?_ He crosses his arms, watching his partner throw daggers at him from the top of the table.

_You're the one who wanted to keep it. You should be hiding this instead of fucking the neighbor._

      Wrench frowns. Numbers keeps looking at him in case he's about to respond, knowing how Wrench can get when not looked at in the middle of a conversation. He doesn't want to risk being pushed off the table.

 _Took me ten minutes to help with the bags. You think I was banging her? Should I worry you suffer from premature ejaculation?_ Numbers is in the perfect position to kick Wrench's head, so he does it, without considering the other can catch it in midair, which he does.

      "He- Hey! Stop it, man. Shit! Let go! This is not funny, this is dangerous, alright?!". They must look ridiculous right now, two grown men fighting over the kitchen table, Wrench holding Numbers' foot while he jump in one leg trying not to fall. He pushes his foot back with more force than Wrench was expecting and manage to break free, but the sudden movement also break his balance and he falls, an embarrassing scream coming out of his mouth making he thanks the superior entities that made his partner deaf.

      Numbers hit his head on the sink and spreads all across the kitchen floor. He is cursing and holding the bumped area when turn around, expecting to see the asshole having the time of his life with that weird silent laugher of his. That's not what he face. Wrench is at the fridge, taking out one of the bags of ice they always have there just in case. He kneels on the floor and shove the thing on Numbers head. They stay there and stare at each other. Wrench makes some circles around his chest.  _Sorry._

 _If you aren't, you should._ For a moment, it's clear on the confusion on his face Wrench has no idea what Numbers is talking about. He understand a moment later. The hand holding the ice on his head move up and down, the closest thing to stroking his hair Wrench would aloud himself to do.  _She likes you._

      He can't help a laugh. It must have being aloud, because Numbers shifts in that way he always does when Wrench makes any sound.

 _I won't fuck the neighbor. What would happen next? She enters here and sees the machine gun you were dumb enough to hide in the kitchen?_ Numbers kicks, this time a playful one, and laughs to himself.  _And why do you care who I fuck?_ The laughing stops. Their eyes met and Wrench was good enough in reading body postures to know he hit a nerve. Numbers slapped his hand away and got up.

 

      A couple times Numbers went out to get a new tattoo. An old man with a lamp post on his arm, a head with wings on his wrist, weird shit like that. Wrench doesn't understand it, but Numbers keeps showing it to him after. That one he didn't.

      It jumped out of his shirt on a Thursday morning when he leaned in to take a better view of the target's house. Right on his collarbone line, some _N-D-A-R_. Wrench asked what was that. Numbers shoved him off, signed for him to keep it quiet and let him work. The top buttons pulled out and his shirt opened enough to reveal a still healing new tattoo, in that stage when the whole thing is a giant gross scrab.

_BOUNDARIES._

      That one Wrench understood.

 

* * *

PART X

_Never dropped you. Never would._

* * *

 

      Maybe they are at disadvantage in that scenario. Bullets are flying everywhere, creating flashes of light in the darkness where clashing with the metal containers. Wrench is trying to figure out how many men are shooting at them, but it's impossible to see anything in that dark and, of course, it's fucking snowing. His sight caught three, but it was probably four, maybe five.

      They are  _definitely_  at disadvantage in that scenario.

      Numbers is hiding in the distance, occasionally getting up to shoot back. Wrench is sure he also can't see anything. Some signs are lost in the dark, attempts to tell him to keep down and stop shooting never arrived as his eyes don't turn that way. Shit. He's probably pissed about the bullet that flew past his coat moments before they split to look for cover. It was a close one.

      In that situation, he could only do something when they stop shooting to reload. He couldn't stay there long enough for one of them to get closer, take a better angle, shoot them. Fuck, they should have brought more ammo. Wrench's pistol is already dead. They needed more people. That was definitely not a two men job. But isn't that the whole point of a set up? They're fucked. There is no negotiation out of this, no smart talking. They want them dead. Fucking Minnesota put their fingers on the Grand Forks operation. Killing them would send the message: there is no place for Fargo's men snooping around here.

     Wrench ducked and took a look from the ground up. He is not going to die to send a fucking message.

      Maybe they have a real problem on their hands here. Maybe they finally bite something bigger than their mouths. Maybe that's how begin their last hit. Wrench tries not to think about it and moves the sight of his gun, looking for something in the dark. He remembers how he used to complain about the easy boring jobs, the last months of sitting around, reading files, rubbing bleach over someone else's house because it was too easy to do what they do lately. He always forgets that all it takes is one lucky bastard on a good day. No, not thinking about it now. The shots seem to have stopped. That's it, that's the closer to a perfect moment to try to get to Numbers he would get. They just have to make it to the car, regroup, drive away from that hell. They could call Fargo at the motel and he would sign for Numbers to tell them to send the whole army on the payroll because someone is trying to cross a leg at Fargo. Tripoli would be pissed.

      Wrench got to his hands and knees to crawl over the snow, slowly and carefully. Anything is better than not moving. He hadn't dragged himself halfway when a bullet passed close to his head. His heart jumps. They can see him. Shit.

      He has no idea where the hell he come from, but suddenly Numbers is at his side, firing the M249 all over the place. In the snow, wearing all that black, he's an easy target. Wrench pulls his legs to try to force him to lower himself, look for cover, not get shot at. But Numbers is stronger than he looks and instead pulls his partner up, signing fast to run. They run, knowing they are easy targets in that open field, but there is not much else to do. They stopped behind the container Numbers was using as cover moments ago and Wrench took the machine gun from his hands, replacing it with the car keys.

_Bring the car here. Don't stop, I will climb on. I'm distracting them so you can run. You run faster. I'm a better shooter._

      "Wha-?! Are you crazy?! I'm not leaving you here alone. Let's make a bette- Hey! WRENCH! FOR CHRISSAKE, MAN!".

      Wrench doesn't understand half the things he said and just scowls, push him to the chest and jump out of cover. He runs over the snow with the machine gun in hand, firing into the dark places from which the bullets came, taking a guess from what he saw. Maybe he would get at least one of them. Numbers curses. Left with no options, he turns to go to the car. But then there is a sound, some restrained howling of pain, something he has heard before one or two times. He spins around. Wrench body shake in a strange way, liquid being scattered all over the snow and he falls backwards, hard, like a rock, finger off the trigger.

      His eyes open wide. Holly shit. He looks around, calculating the risk. Fuck it. Fuck everything. Numbers stumbles through the snow with some difficulty toward his fallen partner, throws himself over him like that would stop the bullets. Wrench hadn't got too far, it shouldn't be impossible to push him into a safer spot. He is awake and tries to help. Not dead. Numbers can hear his own sigh of relief and his wavering voice cursing. He knows he is saying "man" too much, it's a nervous thing. There is some loud bang, something close again, and Wrench's body slips from his hands once more and back into the snow. Fuck. Another shot flew by, blood splashing from Wrench's body to Numbers' livid face. The blood is hot. Wrench's eyes are big, he's holding his own stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, and that look he gave him in the dark scares Numbers like nothing ever scared him before.

      They shot him three times. Three times.

      They have to get out of there. Where are the bullets? Did they hit something important? Shit shit shit. They have to get to a safe place, stop the bleeding, take the bullets out. Move! Now!

      He get down and tries to lift Wrench, but he's not helping anymore is too heavy to be carried. He takes Numbers hand.

 _No,_ he signs.  _G_ _et out._

      Numbers shake his head. "No fucking way, man!". He tell him he is not going to die, not on his watch, then pull him by the shoulders and the hood of his jacket, trying not to think of the many times he has dragged a body that way, listening to the bullets ricocheting. There's no fucking way that's happening. He isn't dying, Wrench isn't fucking dying in his arms at a shitty hit like that, on someone else's war, in the middle of nowhere, on a fucking snowstorm.

      He pushes him with all the strength he has, a red trail of blood being drawn clearly on the white snow, showing their path for anyone to see. Numbers can only hope the fuckers shooting at them are too cautious to come and see if they got the shot right now. Please, make them wait a few minutes so they would have time to escape. Wrench makes a louder moan of pain when Numbers slips and let him fall. It's an awful sound. He puts a gloved hand to his mouth -  _shut up! -_ and keeps dragging his partner to the car. He is losing too much blood. Numbers hear his own voice treating him on dying, telling him not to do that, not to let him alone again, that he is not letting Wrench go this time. If feels like forever until the road appears on the distance. They got to the car. He hurry to open the door to the back seat. Wrench's eyes are open, but not much. His arms don't press the wound anymore, loosen along his board body. He is going to faint. He is going to die. Numbers is looking at his eyes as they start to close. No. Please no. Reaching down, he cups the other's face between both hands.

      "Look at my mouth", said Numbers open and slow, holding his head up. "I'm taking you somewhere safe. Everything will be okay. Just keep awake, please. Mr. Wrench? Can you understand me? Wrench? Wes!".

      He is gone.

      Numbers put his own arms beneath his, pulling him up and into the back seat. His own clothes are bathed in his partner's blood. He closes the door, enters the drivers side and starts driving. He can still hear the bullets as the vehicle rush on the road, teeth pulling at the glove so he can stretch back and look for Wrench's pulse. Nothing. The car almost hit a tree when Numbers turned all the way to pull Wrench's turtleneck and stuck two fingers on that vein below the ear, trying to feel his heartbeat. He can't feel shit. Wes is cold under touch.

 

      There was only one other time in his life Numbers felt that way: the first time Wrench was gone, all those years ago, when he was not yet Mr. Wrench and Numbers was not yet Mr. Numbers. He was not scared when Fargo went for them because he knew they still had each other, but he was scared when he was left alone. He'd sworn, back then, if his path even went back to Wes, no one would take them apart again.

      He forgot about that when years passed by and he just didn't found him. It became a nice memory of someone he cared about and that had cared about him, but nothing to hope to hold again. Even when he did came back, by now Numbers had taught himself how to be alone and knew better than to get caught into caring. To care was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had cared before and it did nothing for him. Shit. If the contact didn't shown in two minutes, he is going to drive to the front door. He told Stamps he was going to do it and it was not a bluff. Couldn't stand there and watch him being taken away again. Couldn't take that hit again. Couldn't be alone again.

      Someone opens the backdoor to the hospital. Numbers get out of the car. The nurse's face goes white to the sight of the man covered in blood taking long and hard steps in her direction.

      He hadn't called anyone important about this. Jergen cellphone ringed twice before Numbers killed the call with a sudden enlightenment. Not Jergen. Too smart. Not Mr. Pin. Hell no Carlyle. They would tell him to drop it, stick to the assignment, come back and report. Jergen would be more thoughtful. "He awake, mate?". If Numbers said yes, he would answer it could wait for one of their doctors and give some address. If Numbers said no, he would go silent. "How many bullets?". Three. "He is already dead, mate. Stick to the assignment, yeah? Sorry". Fuck that Australian shit, don't you fucking _mate_ me. Numbers realized he was talking to himself and still hadn't called anyone. He needed someone. Someone little. Someone he could intimidate. The fucking secretary, that's who. She liked Wrench. He caught him teaching her some signs as Numbers left the office after doing their report. The asshole, couldn't help flirting around. Maybe he was doing her. For chrissake, Grady, not now, not this now. Numbers looked for it on his phone. They called the woman Stamps, because of course even Mr. Pin's secretary had a stupid nickname.

      He tried to keep his voice calm as going through the instructions. Find some contact in a hospital nearby. Yes, right now, it has to be now. Tell the person to meet him in the back, have a room ready. It's a bullet wound, it's bleeding like someone cut a pig's jaw, so have some blood too. He doesn't know the type. He doesn't want any excuse, he isn't waiting for the call to confirm, he is going to be there and he better found someone waiting for him or he is getting Mr. Wrench to the front door. If he does that, she would have to pull strings in the local PD. It's just easier if she does him this favor with a doctor, right? Keep the cops away from this. Oh, and don't you say a word about this to anyone. He would call tomorrow so they would go through the details of their story. Keep it shut until them. It's their little secret, alright? Just get him a doctor.

      His voice isn't as calm as he wanted, but it would do. Would work better if she could see the smile he was unconsciously making inside the car.

      The nurse brings a wheelchair. Numbers doesn't have it in him to look much, just open the door, pulls his legs out of the car and hold him - _so cold_ -, dropping the heavy body in place. Before closing the door again, he takes the bag under the seat. The corridors are empty. Good. The nurse fights the key on a locked door and Numbers would worry later about her hands being steady enough to do the job. Now, he is holding Wrench's head up by the jaw as he leans in to try feeling the heartbeat again, maybe put a finger under his nose and see if there's a breathe. Instead, he buries his own nose on top of his head. It smells like sweat and oil. Disgusting. It's hard to stop himself.

      The nurse is watching.

      "I'll be back in a few minutes. Oh, and it's just best for the three of us you don't try anything funny".

      She wouldn't, not with the glare he throws at her before turning his back and carrying the bag down the hall. The bathroom isn't far.

      The bloody clothes are carefully striped and folded over the sink. He puts on a fresh pair of pants from the bag, but didn't packed a second belt; the one he has is stained with blood, Wrench's blood, so he don't put it on again. Before reaching for the shirt, he open the water tap and clean his arms, his chest, hands, face, and look at the red being watched away in the sink. He wishes Wrench was there. He would know what to do. He was better at this kind of things. He would get a doctor, not a fucking nurse with shaking hands. _Shit!_ When he looks up again, his eyes are red in the mirror. Not now, not ever. Pull yourself together.

      "What the fuck did you get yourself into, Grady?". It's been awhile he don't say his name out loud. It doesn't sound right.

      A laugh escape while buttoning the shirt, the letters mocking every one of his last actions. Right. Boundaries.

      Numbers is walking back to the room when his leg vibrate. The name glowing on the display makes him curse again. Of course. Fucking Jergen is calling back.

      The secretary called Mr. Pin. Sure she did. Wrench would have known that. Jergen is pissed, he wants to know what the fuck Numbers was thinking threatening their secretary. He didn't threat her (did he? should he kill her now?). Jergen laughs, asks for an explanation.

      The situation was a lot messier than they thought. For what Numbers reported and other intel, they're at the borders of a State war over territory. On top of it, Wrench got shot and Numbers did something dumb. Really, really dumb. Got himself killed or arrested kind of dumb. They are having a meeting tomorrow, so stay put, don't do anything even  _more_ stupid, they would get to him with new orders. So he starts telling a story about some time he had a partner and the guy got shot and... Numbers zoomed out, looking at the windows on the door to where he just saw Wrench move his foot. Alive. So he listen to Jergen's whole story without hanging up on him, a smile on his face.

 

      Wrench doesn't know where he is when wakes up, but the fog on his mind takes only a few seconds to clear. He can smell it, the medicine and ill people, and there's only one place on Earth that would be that damn white.  _Hospital_. Everything is heavy and hurtful. The confusion is back when he moves his wrists and they go up easily. No handcuffs.

       Trained eyes scan the empty room. No sign of guards at the door. Maybe the police didn't have time to arrive yet. No, the medical work on his body don't look like a less than fifteen minutes seam. Something else is up. Where the fuck is Numbers? Maybe he drop him off and ran away, like Wrench told him to. Good. The further from him now, the better. It meant they got less chances of arresting him too. Now, he has to work on a story for himself or leave that room before the cops shown up. Run, he has to run, but his body is too heavy and everything hurts too much. He can't breath right. It's easier just to drown into unconscious.

      When he wakes up again, Numbers is there. For a moment, Wrench forgets and they're home, he just fell asleep on the couch, Numbers is waking him to say _get up, we have a job to do_. Except they don't; he is writing something down on a piece of napkin. It's long. Wrench wants to reach for him and let him know he is awake, but can't move without feeling sharp slices of pain cutting his whole body open. And he don't want him to stop writing. There's a light concern or even sadness on his face, that frown burning in place. He is the only colorful thing on that room, even though mostly black; a dark purple shirt and blue scarf loose on his body, the top buttons up showing a word coming out of his chest.

      Eventually, he finish writing and raise his head to put the napkin over Wrench's bed. He looks tired, like when he couldn't get any sleep. Numbers almost fell off the chair when his arm got grabbed and his mouth went to work on a full repertory of curses.

 _Asshole!_ He signs, Wrench only smiles.

Wrench points at the paper on his chest, a question implicit at the way his head go left. Numbers was still recovering for the jump, but as soon as the note it pointed, he get the napkin back and rip it into pieces.

 _Instructions,_ he answer another implicit question on Wrench's piercing blue eyes, standing out against all the white on the room and his pale face.  _Do you remember what happened?_

      He can remember most of it; the shooting, the car, some parts about a doctor putting a needle in his arm, so shake his head into an affirmative. Numbers seem relieved. He leans forward on his chair and raise a hand to grab hard on Wrench's shin. _I will get you a doctor._

      Wrench's face contorted into pain as he did his best to get at least one hand up.  _Wait._  Numbers stops. _Instructions?_

      He shake his head, looks torn into telling the truth or keeping him in the dark. Wrench is ready to go for a argument, if it is the later. Numbers can sense it.  _I called Fargo to let them know I was getting you to a hospital. They made some arrangements. You're fine here, Syndicate wants you alive._ He must have thought it came out too hard to believe, adding a few more signs.  _Not that many deaf hitman out there to replace you._

      Wrench let out a half-smile and blinked slow, that kind of lentor one fill with morphine is forced into.

_Thought you dropped me to the cops again._

      His jaw hardens and a calm face turns into a scowl.

 _I_ never _dropped you._ Never _would._ His hands are as hash as his expression.

      Wrench nods. He wants to believe that is true, but he just don't. He will take what he got. Numbers being there, trying to take care of things, not having abandoned him in the field again, must count as something.

 _You are not a better shooter._ They both know that is true. Numbers is the shooter. Wrench is not confused by the affirmation, he remembers signing that before pulling the M249 from his hands and telling him to run to the car. It was stupid. He doesn't know how to explain why he said it, so it's a good thing Numbers don't ask. Maybe they both know why.  _Don't do something like this again._ He is not angry, but there's something sheepish in the way his hands move and he bites the lower lip. _One bullet on the shoulder, other in the stomach. A third almost got your knee. You could be deaf and crippled now. And blind, because you do that again and I will put your eye out._

      Something that resembles a laugh escape Wrench's mouth.  _You could try._   _Deaf and crippled, I still kick your ass._ He shake his head to Numbers rolling his eyes and muttering something aloud he can't read.

 _You were watching me sleep?_ Two fingers rubbed his chin, that smug half-smile playing on his lips. _Cute_.

It was just a joke, but Numbers doesn't find it funny. Somehow, his face become something harder and he adjust the jacket of his suit, a hand going to arrange his already perfect hair.

_I can't stay. They need me in Fargo. Those Minnesota assholes are bringing in a war, like this is the seventies. Fargo is assembling everyone. Can't bring you, you're too hurt, need rest. Don't argue, please. I was writing instructions so you would know what to do when awake. Just stay here, be good, someone is already paid to look after you. When this is all over, I'm coming to get you and we're going home._

      Home. It's been years, decades, since Wrench last knew what that word meant.

_Are you going to be okay?_

_Why? You worried about me or something?_

      He smiles and reply nothing. In the silence that takes the room, the pair continue to look at each other with a slight curl of lips. It's nice. The feeling is warm and terrifying altogether. Numbers is the one who breaks the spell.

 _If I don't come back in two weeks,_ something in Wrench's chest sunk. That's why it is so terrifying to feel that good around him, to think they have a home.  _There's a bag here with money, clothes and ID. Take it._

      Numbers wait for him to answer, but as Wrench just nods he nod back, although don't get up from the chair. His eyes never leave the other's face, like he's waiting for something, or maybe waiting to tell him something. If Wrench's arm would just move far enough to reach for him on the chair, he would pull him close. Numbers taps his leg two times, a light and brief touch, and finally stand to his feet. He does that again, running his fingers through Wrench's messy curls, to what he leans into the touch. It lasts too little. Numbers sign for _be back soon_. Wrench nods.  _You better be_ , is what he answer and it get him a full grin before Numbers turns his back and leave the room.

 

      He is leaning in a shady car with no glass on the back windows and scratch marks all over the old paint. It's a dump, the kind of car that survived several crashes, and Numbers looks like he was in at least three of them. His nose is broken, there's a cut on his lip and a dark purple bruise on his right eye, showing even under sunglasses. The suit, however, is impeccable.

      They don't sign anything as the nurse rolls Wrench outside in a wheelchair through the back door. Numbers said a few words to her in a low, calm, tone as she takes the envelope. The woman shakes and don't say anything. He watches her go away, like a wolf. As soon as they were left alone, he turns to Wrench. He smiles. Not to him, he isn't a wolf to him.

 _You look better,_ he signs.

 _You look like something the cat dragged in,_ Wrench replies.

_What? Asshole. You know something? Fuck you. I was being nice. You don't look better. The beard is ridiculous. How old are you? Twelve? Can't even grow a proper beard?_

_I'm calling whoever did this to you to finish the job if you don't shut up and get me out of here right now._

      There's a moment when they just stare under furrowed brows, trowing angry glares. It dissolves into a shared laugh.

      Numbers reach down to help Wrench in the car. It's been two weeks since they last saw each other. Wrench thought he was dead. The warm body pressed against him while being shoved inside the shitty car remembers him he's alive, for now he's alive and everything is fine.

      The nurse gave him a couple pills for the trip, something that would help with all the sitting and moving, so as soon as the car hits the road, the world turns black. He sleeps. At some point, he is shaken awake and put in another car. He goes back to sleep. When Wrench is awake again, Numbers is sitting there, in the driver's seat, reading a file. Forgetting about his condition, he sits straight too fast and and acute pain throbs all over his torso. There must have some sound of pain, because Numbers turns fast, something like "shit!" coming out as he drop the file and goes to help Wrench out of the seat beat.

_You okay?_

Wrench just nods in reply and shove his hands away. He points at the file.  _We have a new one already?_

      Numbers sits back, leaning an elbow by the window on his side. He don't answer. Wrench can see that familiar old house with an ugly lawn growing at weird lengths behind him. They are close to home, parked outside Numbers' favorite cafe. It's still daytime, if morning or evening Wrench can't tell. Probably morning.

 _Not us,_ he finally signs.  _Me. They're sending me to deal with some stuff while you recover._ Wrench glare, that scowl on his face the other saw enough times to know what it meant. He doesn't like it, Numbers out there alone. Look at his face, all messed up. It isn't right. They have to do it together. But before he can protest, his partner is showing one finger.  _I have something for you._

      Stretching to get it in the backseat, he comes back with a black bag and put it between them. Wrench keeps glaring, this time suspicious, and sigh before opening the bag. It's his fringed jacket. He looks up. Numbers stares back, expectant, and move his hands in a incentive to Wrench to take it. It isn't his jacket. There is no bullet holes, no stain of blood, some fringes he missed in previous assignments are back. Not light brown, but buckskin. Feels a lot more expensive too.

_Couldn't fix the other, too many holes in it. Bought you a new one._

      Wrench put the thing down and looks away from Numbers' smile. Anything but him. If he looked at him now, if they keep staring at each other and being nice in that car, he wouldn't be able to restrain himself from doing something stupid. Something he has been questioning for a while if he shouldn't do, every time Numbers does those little things as being nice when they aren't nice to anyone. But the memory of another time he has made this mistake still holds him back. It was bad enough with Bill. He can't have that with Numbers. Anyone but him. Wrench have met people who wanted to hurt him or fuck him, sometimes people who were both, but never anything like Grady.

After a moment, Wrench turns and manage a  _thanks,_ hands moving fast.

 _Can you walk?_  Numbers brows goes up and Wrench nodded a yes. _Let's eat._

      The cafe is practically empty, which is not unsual. That was the main reason they kept coming back to the place. That, and it's close enough from their apartment to go on foot in mornings where none of them was in the mood for cooking.

      They sat in their usual spot near the emergency exit, a habit acquired at work. Wrench is not surprised that walking is not as difficult as sitting; the bullet in his knee passed scraping, the one that entered his stomach stayed there and did a great damage. But after two weeks of recovery, he's well enough to deny Numbers' help as getting out of the Corolla convenient parked at the entrance.

      The place is practically empty, but the waitress takes at least five minutes to show. The service is bad. Almost as bad as the waffles they serve.

 _T_ _hey took you as hostage?_  The waitress hadn't shown yet and Numbers raises his head from the menu he already memorized by now to look at his partner. _You got bit up or something?_

 _Something,_ he answer in a brief sign, then goes back to reading. It's clear on the way their eyes don't meet Numbers don't want to talk about that. Wrench knocks at the table two times. The other sighs, pinching his nose, saying something behind his hand before elaborating.  _We're good. They pulled a fight, but we ambushed in U-L-I-S-S-E-S warehouse. Most dead. Some escaped. We are hunting them down one by one. The bright side about it, I got to use a G-R-E-A-N-A-D-E-L-A-U-N-C-H-E-R._ He opens a short smile and show his palms, raising both eyebrows as if saying "not so bad, uh?".

 _Seems like I lost all the fun_. At least they won't have to deal with that for a while. He realized Numbers didn't really answered his question, but their conversation is cut short by the waitress.

      "Hey there boys, how are yo-... Wow! What happened?!"

      The girl works there since the first time they entered the place. She knows that Wrench takes black coffee and Numbers with milk, that Wrench likes his eggs scrambled and Numbers fried, extra bacon aside, please, no salt. She knows when she can smile and make small talk and when it's best to leave them be. It's nothing, but as Numbers catch himself in the position of having to make an excuse for his bruises, he realize they can't go back there anymore.

      "Car crash. We are fine, really. Don't worry. I'm having the number three with extra bacon, please. And some tea, if you have. Thank you". He handle her the menu, his tone and expression making it clear this is one of the times she must go quick. But the girl just have it on today.

      "Oh my God, that's awful!". Then she looks at Wrench, who was resign to his position of shifting from one face to another to try to follow the conversation, and she does a new thing.  _Are you okay?,_ her hands ask him.

      "You, you sign?", he stutters, mind already going back to all the conversations they had right there about things no one should know. Wrench's eyes are wide at the other side of the table, although the white on his face was probably just the blood loss.

      The girl - she must be fifteen, maybe sixteen, Numbers never gave her more than a fast glance to think about it, but now that they may have to kill her it was important - look back at him and opens a shy smile.

      "I'm learning some. Could be handy, right? In case another deaf costume come in and he don't have a..." She trails off, let the phase hanging. Smart of her not to try on guessing what they are. She turns back to Wrench and sign something. Numbers can read an _"it'"_ and _"really"_ , and other gesture that just can't be right. Wrench is taken aback from it, surprised at first, but fast notice it was probably a mistake and shake his head. He tries to say she got it wrong, but he's too fast for a beginner. She is confused. Despite the potential danger of the girl's interest in ASL, that still manage to take a smile out of Numbers.

      "You just told him he is very ugly. I don't think he enjoyed your honesty".

      "Oh, I didn't... No, I meant to say it's complicated! I'm so sorry. Oh, this is awful. Can you say to him I'm sorry?"

_She says she meant it, you're hideous. I think it's the beard. Doesn't suit you._

      Wrench makes a face to him; he knows Numbers is fucking around.  _Stop harassing the girl, idiot. Tell her it's fine, the signs are close. And I will have the number five._

      She looks from one to another, nervous by the big gestures Wrench is making, before asking what he said.

      "He will have the waffles, number five". Numbers catch something in the corner of his eye, Wrench telling him to stop being an ass and just repeat what he said for a change. He sighs, too tired to deal with this right now, and as his hands move again, the words come out of his mouth along. _"Alright! He says it's fine, a common mistake. We all know how handsome he is. Now, can you bring us our food, please?"_

      The girl walks away. Fucking finally.

 _You shouldn't mock her. You mess up a lot of signs too._ Numbers scoffs, waving a hand as that was absurd. Maybe Wrench was born into ASL, with a deaf mother to teach him from the crib, but Numbers is doing it since he was nine. He knows his sign language.  _Some shit I swear you just make up. I can understand because I'm used to it, but for another deaf person it's like you are talking a whole different language._

      He raises both eyebrows again, showing a palm up.  _Oh yeah? Like what?_

      Wrench lean back in the seat, thinking. He doesn't have to think much before a smile pulls the corner of his mouth. He does the sign for  _work_. Numbers shrugs; he knows that one, they use it all the time.  _Work,_ he repeat, and then finger-spell it.  _What's wrong with it?_

 _This is not W-O-R-K. This is._ Wrench does something similar, but with a whole different meaning. Wrists are tapped together, hands facing one another. Then he goes back to the first one, the sign Numbers uses, tapping one hand at another, both twisted to the same side. _M-A-S-T-U-R-B-A-T-I-O-N_. Numbers arched brows went down into a frown.

 _Wait a minute. Are you saying I'm walking around all this time telling you Fargo called and we have to J-E-R-K-O-F-F?_ There's a wide smile on Wrench's lips when he nods his head in affirmation. Numbers' face turns red.  _Why didn't you told me this before?!_

 _I don't know. You did it right at first, then slowly went from this_ , he made the  _work_ sign again,  _from this,_ and showed the one for masturbation.  _I didn't notice until you asked me if I needed help finishing masturbating._

      Wrench's playful smile melt away to Numbers glaring at him right in the eyes, lips squeezed, eyebrows coming together so hard it almost formed a single path of hair. It's impossible he would remember that night, the way Wrench took several seconds staring back in the motel room without a blink before answering _okay_ to the question he thought he was asked. Numbers approached, Wrench's breath become heavy as he sat on the bed, and was on his way to touch him when Numbers took one of the handguns over the bed and began to disassemble it. He blinked. The situation only made sense when Numbers looked up, impatient, and told him to masturbate. Oh, not that, he meant _work_ , he was asking if he needed help finishing working on cleaning the guns. Wrench couldn't correct him after that. It happened a long time ago, they didn't even live together then. He still had some light expectancy of having him that way then. That tattoo wasn't there then.

      Their food arrived.

      Somewhere in the middle of Wrench destroying his waffles with a fork as trying to cut pieces with only one hand, the other arm put on a sling making it difficult to hold a knife, Numbers sighed and dragged the plate to his side. He used his own knife and fork to cut the pieces for him and slid it back with a  _there, I don't know how you can eat this shit, but do it like a person._ Wrench smiled and ate.

      The girl was staring while Numbers waited for the food he asked to go on the counter. It almost made him regret not waiting for it on the table with Wrench. No, it didn't. He needed to be away from him right now, maybe for a couple more weeks. It's a good thing Fargo gave him an assignment for tomorrow morning. He would glare a teenager back just not to be with Wrench now. Annoyance burned into him for what he was doing, getting him some food because the idea of letting him alone in that apartment with no means to contact anyone and barely able to get up made him sick. Fuck caring. He would be okay, Wes was a grown man, he didn't need Grady to cut his waffles.

      "You two are really cute, you know?"

      Numbers looks back to the girl, having turned his torso to check on his partner, who was reading the back of a ketchup bottle.

      "What?". She has a soft smile on her face and a glow on his eyes, cheeks red. What the fuck. "Thank you".

      There's something in the bag she gave him other than the usual styrofoam box; the weight is not right. He opens it. It's an ugly plastic flower and a really small cupcake. Numbers runs a hand through his face as he let out an audible sigh. Well, that must be a new low, right? Being hit on by a sixteen years old? Can't get any worst than that.

      "What is this?". He tries on a calm tone that is hash at the same time. Not a treat, he is not angry, but he is not friendly either. It always worked to keep people away. The girls bite her lips and look over his shoulder to Wrench before coming back to his face. "Hm?"

      "It's, hm... A Valentine's treat we're giving to couples today. Do you want to buy a card too? It's for the children's cancer hospital".

      The counter is decorated with big cheesy paper hearts. She points at the _Be my Valentine_ cards on display he didn't noticed before, too absorbed on his worries about Wrench. Wrench, right.

      "No, thanks", is what Numbers replied before digging out a smile and closing the bag. The girl smiles back.

 _Finally,_ Wrench sign as soon as Numbers starts moving out and makes a nod for him to follow. He gets an eye-roll in response.

      They stop on the sidewalk. Numbers ruffles inside the bag and take out the plastic flower, crush it between fingers and hide on his coat pocket before entering the driver's seat. Wrench sits on his side with a soft moan; sitting will be a bitch for a while. He felt a tap on his arm.

_Bought you a cupcake. Inside the bag. Must be too sweet as those waffles and as awful as your beard._

      It's Wrench's time to gave a theatrical eye-roll. _Quit being an ass. I didn't have a razor on the hospital. Yours isn't that nice, either._

_Whatever. Just eat your thing._

      He huffed, but opened the bag and took the dessert out. It was too sweet, but that's okay, it's not awful if it was one of those nice things they did for each other even though they aren't nice to anyone.

 

* * *

PART XI

_You and me babe, how about it?_

* * *

 

      It first happened by accident.

      Numbers was back from his first solo hit, something about the Grand Forks operation. He wasn't specific in the details before he left, and Wrench didn't ask; this is one of the things it's best not to know. The evening he came back, Pale Rider was on and Clint Eastwood rode a horse with dramatic manly confidence when a shadow spread over the couch. Wrench turned to see his partner raising two bags of Chinese from that new place down street they saw before the shots. His face was better, the purple bruises almost gone.

      They haven't seen each other for weeks, which didn't happen for a while since they moved in together, and lately is happening too often. Numbers put the food down the center table and leaned to help him up. The touch was unexpected, more awkward than helpful. When Wrench pushed forward, the other had the wrong idea of what he was doing and put both arms around him. They hugged. It lasted one second. Numbers patted him in the good shoulder after pulling away. Wrench patted him on the back in return. Weird. They ate and talked about the Minnesota-Fargo situation. It's always easier to focus on work.

      The second time it happened, it was not an accident.

      It's been two months since Numbers is going on solo hits. They mostly talk about the Syndicate when he's back, so now Wrench has a strong idea of what he's doing. Some of them are hunting the last traitors while Carlyle and Jergen do meetings, setting the ground to put new people in charge. It used to be Numbers' job. Wrench thinks about it sometimes, and mostly in those weeks he's left alone in the apartment. When their paths went back to each other in that warehouse, Numbers said he was there because he's the only one in the payroll who knows ASL. Bullshit. A pen and a piece of paper never stopped them doing business. Fargo send him because he was on a strike to the top, climbing on the right stairs. Numbers always was more of a golden boy than Wrench. And isn't it the dream? The errand boy who used to put his ear against the door to listen to the bosses talking rise from all that shit. From nothing to his own office, maybe his own operation to rule. He even had the name for it.

      But when Grady was asked if he wanted to take Wes back under his wing, he said yes. Didn't have to. Could have shot him in those months they fought and threw angry glares at each other. Instead, they are here, arguing about the mess Wrench made of their apartment in the other's absence, the neighbors complaining about the cigarette smell rising to the upper floors, if it's time for Numbers to quit smoking. Wrench knows better than to think he is the reason Grady turned out as he is, his friend was already lost when they first met at that park, but he is also sure his presence didn't help. Like everything that ever came to be in his life, it had a cost. Having each other came with a cost.

      Numbers is never home for more than two days. The Syndicate keeps him busy, things still messy with Minnesota. Wrench is bored and worried most of the time. He tries to argue he can go back to assignments with him, to what Numbers always replies Mr. Pin wants Wrench on ice for a few more weeks. Also bullshit. They have being told before the boss could't care less if they do it solo, as a duo or on a fucking troupe, as long as the pay stays the same and the results are what they promised. Wrench isn't sure if Numbers is just holding something back, or if he wants distance. He is almost sure it's related to why Fargo let them alive after the mess Numbers did getting him to a hospital. He would never be that close to have his own office again.

      Looking at the ceiling, he tries and fails to remember what he used to do with himself before Numbers. So he cleans the apartment. Buys some nicotine patches from the pharmacy nearby and leaves them on the kitchen counter. When Numbers comes back again, he finds them. The hug happen once more. It lasts way more than a second and still isn't enough.

      Then there's now. Wrench knows this hug is lasting an unreasonable amount of time.

      His shoulder is good enough for putting both arms around him. Wrench can feel his own heart racing and wonders if the other can feel it too. He smells like male cologne, that one who reminds him of a forest after the rain, and his body is warm, nice, welcoming. Fingers still inside black gloves touch the side of his neck. Wrench move his arms, tracing circles up and down his back until he feels a hot breath, and watch the skin on the back of Numbers' neck be filled with little dots where the hair goes up and he shivers, fast pulling away from the hug.

 _Missed a spot on both sides?_ Wrench cocked an eyebrow, taking some time to understand, mind still filled with that unreasonable long hug. He laughed and flipped him a finger. It's the mutton chops.

_Don't you like it?_

_You look ridiculous. What's next? Are you getting a N-E-C-K-E-R-C-H-I-E-F and a S-T-E-T-S-O-N too?_

_If you don't shut up I might._

_You're too old to play cowboy._

_You're too young to complain this much_ , said Wrench. Numbers shrugs, picks up the bag he dropped as walking in the kitchen and moved it to the top of the counter.  _What is this?_

      A playful teeth smile takes hold of his mouth. He has that hunting posture still on, fresh from the field, and looks like a man who has no idea how a real smile works as he open the bag and take something out. It's a Stoner 63. Wrench look at the thing up and down, a nod of approval and a  _nice_ before reaching for taking the light machine gun on his own hands to examine it.

 _We hit a safe house last night. Mr. Books said we could get whatever we wanted. You lost our last one, so..._ The phase ended with a wave of hand. _There's more_ , he said and went back to the bag. Wrench sat the Stoner aside, watching Numbers ruffle through the bag and come out with two bottles of wine. One he passed along, the other he kept to himself. _The P-A-H-L-M-E-Y-E-R is mine, you have the G-E-V-R-E-Y..._

_Don't care. I'm sure it all tastes the same._

      "Chrissake, man! No!"  _It's a two hundred dollars bottle of wine! It doesn't taste all the same!_

      Wrench took one of the bottles up, inspected the label, did the same with the other one and shook his shoulders.  _Looks the same, must taste the same. I don't know why someone would pay this much to get drunk._

      It's always funny to watch Numbers' get pissed off over his arrogant good taste, glaring up with lips pressed together and frown so deep it almost seem like Wrench just insulted his mother. He is not as snob as he thinks or acts. The expensive suits, European leg cross, perfect hair could have anyone else fooled, but not Wes. Wrench has seen the man live for days out of junk food like Cheetos are a fancy meal and drink half a bottle of spoiled milk until Wrench would sniff it and throw it away in disgust, just to have to fight Numbers on why was he wasting perfectly good food. Right, refined my ass. He was just a snob, and a hypocrite one.

      Without another word, Numbers took both bottles and put them on the fridge. The expensive clothes did suited him.

 _I'm making pasta,_ Wrench said when he had put the gun and bag aside and came back to kitchen.  _We can eat it with my wine later._

_Alright. Good thinking._

      The pasta is nothing special, just something he already do for himself most nights. Wrench can't really cook, but being a hypocritical snob, Numbers isn't that picky with his food. He will eat what he got, even if there's a few spots too hard to chew. The good wine makes it better. Wrench also can't tell the difference between that and the wines that came in a box, but he is sure Numbers can't either. And it's nice, actually, sharing that with him. He even got the fancy glasses, the ones kept on the back of the cabinet that Wrench only saw him use once. He would have joked, months ago, if this was a date. He didn't that night.

      Since Wrench cooked, Numbers is in charge of cleaning. It could be done tomorrow, but there is no reason not to do it now because this is not a date, so he does the dishes, dries them, puts them back, clean the sink. The drain is disgusting, Wrench never learned how to clean the sink. Before he can stop himself, Numbers is walking to the couch where Wrench is reading a book and finishing the last glass of wine from his bottle. Numbers kicks him in the good leg. He looks up in time to see the other grins and pop open the second bottle. The sound is beautiful.

_Are you sure you want to spend your expensive bottle with me?_

      Numbers just shrugs and fill Wrench's glass for him. It still had some of the other bottle in it. Hypocrite snob indeed, if even Wrench knew you are not supposed to do that. 

 _Not like I have someone else to share it with_ , he said before filling his own empty glass.

      It's true. He remembers something Numbers said somewhere in the pass, can't really put a pin on the occasion.  _Just_   _us_.

 _Unreasonable_ is also the amount of time he pass sitting on the floor going through his records and sipping at the wine. He doesn't have that many of them, so Wrench knows he's being avoided. It's not the first time he can sense it. Over the past weeks, it's like they're living in that moment on the hospital before Numbers left, where he stared at Wrench like he was waiting for something. But he always turned his back before it arrived. Maybe this is why he can't stay in the apartment for more than two days, maybe this is why he insisted on going on solo missions, but definitely this is why Wrench didn't joke about the date before. He is not sure it would be a joke anymore.

His attention was back to the book when Numbers finally choose _Remain in Light_ to play and came to sit on the couch. As the vibrations are minimal, Wrench imagines he must have put it low enough to not disturb the neighbors. It's not that late yet. He ponders between going to sleep or staying to finish the chapter - or the bottle.

      A bright light blinds him all of sudden.

 _Take this shit away from my face_ , he signs angrily at a Numbers grinning behind one of the big polaroids.

_Mr. Wrench reading with a glass of wine? Fancy._

_You know you have to destroy it._

      Numbers just shrugs again and take the picture that came out of the camera. He waits until the image clear up, quietly drinking. Wrench shows on the paper holding a hand up and eyes wide open right before closing them to the flash. Numbers look at it for a few seconds before tossing it to his partner, who didn't made a movement to reach, just stared. The girl from the cafe was right, he is very fucking ugly. There's bags under his eyes and he looks pissed. Numbers takes it when he figures Wrench won't and shake his shoulders once more to the disapproval showing on the other's features.

      Settling in the couch and turning his torso, he holds the photo next to Wrench's face, as if analyzing his work of capturing the other as he drinks a long swig of the wine. It's clear he's already drunk. It's even more clear when one of his hands moves to make half gestures that would be incomprehensible if Wrench weren't already used to his sign quirks.

_Green or blue?_

      Takes him a moment to understand Numbers was talking about the color of his eyes.

_I don't know. Green? Depends on the light?_

      He leans back, resting on the couch's arm, staring at it with the same intensity he looked at his targets when trying to figure out if they're lying. It was highly uncomfortable. Wrench was the bigger one, but Numbers had a scary way to slowly analyze their pray like a true predator. Maybe he was wrong, after all. That glare would be put to waste behind a desk. Wrench stares back and let him slowly read his face as if the color of his eyes were holding back information.

      "They're fucking beautiful, man".

      Wrench can only read the "fucking" part on his lips as he turn to get up and change the music, but don't ask what he said. It is a relief to be released from that gaze. He finally let out a breath and think of wolves.

      The new song must have a nice beat. Numbers stays there for a while, back to him, taping his fingers on the shelf and shaking his head.

 _When did you start liking this so much?_ Numbers stops swinging on his heels, frowning to him as he shakes his head again, this time in confusion.  _Music. You play guitar, have all this. It's not..._ He doesn't know what, exactly, so just make a mess with his hands and hope the other will understand. Numbers snorts, drink the rest of the wine on his glass while looking at his partner with both eyebrows arch. He leans to get the bottle and fill it again. Wrench think he is not going to answer, but then he put the glass away to have both hands free.

 _Do you remember_ his hands move to cup the front of his chest and make an B. It's the sign name they made to the daughter of one of Fargo's distributors when they were kids. Barb. Seventeen, big boobs, eager to spite her father making out with fourteen years old little thug Aaron (shit, has really being this long he stopped using Grady?). He remembers. Barb was his first too.  _I moved to the operation in Montana with her family. She was into it, but not into me. I learned for the same reason all teenager does: impress a girl._

_It worked?_

      He looks away, seems to consider it for a moment.

_Not with her. Worked with S-H-E-E-N-A._

      Wrench has no idea who the fuck that is, but he quick decides the new topic is shit and don't ask. But is too late, Numbers has that drunk smile on his face he always has when is about to start talking non-stop about anything.

 _She had a M-O-H-A-W-K and pierced nipples. Crazy bitch. Her dog gave me rabies. Probably all my music taste is her work. I taught her some sign language so we could all chat when you got out. You would've liked her, she beats people up too._  He laughs at his own bad joke, drinks a sip of the wine and adds a  _crazy bitch_  to it.

      Wrench thinks he wouldn't like her, but smiles and shake his head anyway, imagining Grady teaching sign language to his punk girlfriend. He was surely drunk to talk about this.

_And the cameras? Another ex's work?_

_Sort of?_  His facial expression is uncertain, it reads better as a question. Wrench isn't pressuring, but the other still talks, because he is in that mood where he is going to talk now.  _I told you this, I had a photographer friend. College student? The one who got me in prison?_

      He remembers something about it, but hadn't put the two things together before. It's a new discover, but doesn't surprise him as much. Numbers' persona is build upon the slices of things that weren't no more. Sometimes, Wrench doesn't know what he is looking at. He dresses like a rich person he could have being, acts like the poor violent person he was made to be, takes pictures because someone that was kind taught him how and played guitar to a girl he loved before he became no one. Wrench wonders what would he carry of him. When he asks him that and Numbers laughs aloud, he thinks maybe he is a little drunk too. Probably should call it a night. He watches Numbers put more wine on his glass over the center table and don't make a single move to stop it.

_Do you see how we communicate?_

      The wine makes him slow. Wrench can't help a full grin with the enlightenment he's talking about learning sign language. It fills him with proud, knowing he is one of those people. Numbers holds a finger up.

 _Remember when I told you I wasn't going to get a tattoo about you?_ That kills the smile. He does.

It's been a while. Wrench asked if Numbers wanted him gone. The other didn't understand until having a finger pressed against the still sore tattoo on his collarbone. The whole fight was ridiculous. It hurt like nothing should anymore.

      But Numbers seemed too drunk to notice Wrench's reaction and kept going.  _Not true. I did._

      Wrench shifts away from his face and grabs the glass, drinking more than he should in one swig. Fuck him. He knows the "boundaries" shit is a direct message, he doesn't need it rubbed on his face. But as Numbers move closer, he pulls at the leg of his pants and put another tattoo on his line of sight.

      It's hard to tell what it is. Wrench has seen it before, but like the majority of his tattoos, the tiny thing was so badly made and old the ink spread in a unidentifiable way. Squeezing his eyes, he turns his head to make any sense of it. There's two baseball bats crossed over his ankle, and a date too. Wrench can't hold a snort. He didn't even remembered that. When looks up, Numbers is grinning down at him. He let go of the pants and the little thing hidden on his hairy leg that was a reminder he wasn't dragged into this life alone is gone.

 _It could only mean you really like baseball,_ Wrench tries out.

_Did you expected your name or your face on me? Don't flatter yourself. I was young._

      He goes back to the shelf where left the wine. Wrench tries to work on something to say, change the subject. It seem like a good idea to ask him why, then, it didn't work out with the mohawk girl.  _Ended because you were arrested?_

      Numbers shakes his head, say "before that" aloud. He turns his back, so Wrench knows he is not elaboration on that one. Maybe not so drunk, then. Not drunk enough to admit he and Sheena fought all the goddamn time because of him. She said she was not going to compete with a ghost when dumped him. Fine, then, go away. Who needs that crazy bitch anyway.

      Hell, he is the mood for Dire Straits now.

      When Numbers picks an album to play, usually Wrench asks to see the cover and read the lyrics on the back. That one is just a big red box, so he doesn't bother.  _Good song?_ , he asks instead.

 _It has a nice rhythm._ The gestures on his hands are more sloppy than a few minutes ago. _You can dance to it._

 _You dance?_ Wrench can't really picture it, but had to say something; keep them talking, not let them just stare at each other in silence.

_Yes._

      He blinks, taken aback. Eyes goes wide for a moment, then one eyebrow comes up.  _No, you don't._

      Numbers doesn't sign anything, but look back at him with a glow of dare in his eyes, leaning to put the glass of wine down the center table. Wrench noticed the second bottle is nearly empty and he hasn't drank more than two glasses of it. Numbers is too fucking drunk; he also drank most of the first bottle, getting it down his throat fast, maybe not used to have something that taste so good and don't burn on the way down, or maybe the pasta was just that bad. Wrench is not nearly as drunk to roll with it when the other starts dancing on their living room. Except it isn't really dancing, he is just moving around, almost without leaving the same spot, like a bigger version of the little swings he does when listening to music while doing the dishes. It's not that bad, either, but coming from him is just disturbingly ridiculous.

      When Numbers is not looking, Wrench let the disapproval crack and smiles.

      They don't talk as long it lasted, and it ended all of sudden.

_Tired of making a fool out of yourself?_

      The answer is a proud drunk smile that says no, he isn't, or just no, he didn't make a fool out of himself, he is an amazing dancer.

_A slow one is playing now._

_You don't do slow?_

_Not alone. I'm not that sad._

      Even saying so, he stills keeps swinging on his heels. It's a really good song. Maybe the wine is to blame, but it's almost not only a feeling, but a graphic image of those moments on his early twenties, listening to that with asshole Matt, getting high on his darkroom, complaining about being dumped by that crazy bitch he thought he was in love with. Until asshole Matt put a tongue in his mouth. Holly shit if that didn't changed everything. Asshole Matt almost ruined his fucking life. Numbers first killed for that prick, and the second person he killed, as soon as got out, even before heading back to Fargo, was that prick. Asshole. Spoiled people for him, but also taught a lesson. You are born alone and you will die alone, may as well live alone too. Build up boundaries, grow some fucking balls, look up for yourself. Fuck Matt. And fuck Wes too.

      Numbers opened his eyes and turns to sign something about that to Wrench, but his drunk mind still manage to rescue himself and shut that idea. His hands are still up, and Wrench is looking, so he does something else and translate in ASL a piece of the song's lyrics.

 _You and me babe, how about it?_ , is what the song says now and what his hands translate.

Wrench does that thing with his face that made him look like a Clint Eastwood impersonator, tapping the glass with big fingers. He lick his bottom lip. Wine made his own mouth dry, too. It also made him wonder how it was even possible to love that hulk of a killer for hire this much. Because Grady does love Wes, and he does know Wes loves him too. They don't have to say it. None of them would be alive right now if they didn't. That doesn't disturb Numbers. It's been a few years since he made peace with having one person in his life that didn't screw him over and was okay with loving him without wanting him to change, without judgment, just mutual understatement about them both being messed up people. They could be messed up people together. What disturb Numbers, however, is not being able to tell anymore when that familiar platonic feeling he grew up with and would grab at in particularly shitty nights, when he couldn't sleep because he was so fucking messed up and alone, changed. It was all his blame for coming back. What was he supposed to do? Kill him? Kill fucking Wes? Of course not. But he was meant to be a feeling, not a person. Something to hold on, not someone. And what it changed into was hard and wild and _what the fuck_ almost got him killed. This is the part he is not as okay with.

Numbers is asking himself, for the last months, if even him can be that messed up to loose the platonic part.

A pause later and Wrench is drinking the rest of his wine, putting down the glass and getting up. Numbers is in the middle of translating another part for him.  _She's singing, my boyfriend's back._  
  
      Wrench's expression change into surprise to that line. He realized too late what the first one was. Numbers noticed too, what he mistaken his attempt on interpreting to, and there's no way Wes would know Dire Straits are asking Romeo what he's going to do about it, so he looks away. He knows what  _he_ is going to do about it. Numbers drinks the rest of the wine and goes to take more of it, but the bottle is empty.

      "It's a beautiful song", he said aloud. Wrench is looking right at him, so he should be able to read it just fine.

      He gets closer. _You lead,_ he signs.  _I'm not as good of a dancer as you._

      There's a moment when they just stare. How is he even going to lead a man a foot taller and two times boarder into a slow dance is the only thing that seems off to Numbers, but he knows something else should be ringing a bell.

      "Alright", is what he says. "Here, you put your... No, man, not- You're really not kidding about being bad at this, hm?". He has to take Wrench's hand out of his waist two times before he understood his must go on the shoulder. Numbers has the waist, he is leading. He gives him an _alright_ look,  _let's do it_ , and moves. Wrench follows. Too stiff, rough and ungraceful, but Numbers wasn't expecting anything else.

      He stepped on Numbers' foot three times. The other still has his shoes on, and Wrench may be bigger, but he's barefoot, so it probably didn't hurt that much. It didn't take long for him to pick up the basics. Just swing along, let him guide the way, hold his shoulder and hand. A pattern shows. The fingers on his side start tapping along with the rhythm of the song, helping catch what the beat it's supposed to be. When he's comfortable enough to stop staring at their feet and look up, Grady is singing, absorbed on his partner's focused glare at their feet. He stops to mouth a "not bad", hands occupied to sign, and smiles. Then goes back to singing. Wrench tries to read some of it.

      "Both dirty, both mean, yes! And the dream was just the same." Wrench snorts to the other's excitement, but he is too into the song to care now. The mocking reaction has he opposite effect and when he continues to sing, does it louder, almost to prove he can not be embarrassed by this. He is not afraid to walk over that destroyed wall. "How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?".

      A sudden desire for putting his hand on Grady's throat to feel his voice takes hold of him as the other continue to sing, the beating on his waist fastening. Numbers closes his eyes for a moment. The hand holding his shoulder let go, move to his throat. Dark eyes fast snap open. 

      Is not the dancing, is not holding each other so close, is not that Wes can feel Grady's breath on his face when he sings, is the hand on the throat that does it. The beard tickles his hand as a gulp goes through his fingers. They don't do that, let another person take hold of such sensitive part of their bodies. It's dangerous. Numbers has seen it from outside many times now, Mr. Wrench's big hands holding a man by the neck and squeezing the life out of him. It must frighten him being in the receiving end of it, something warm flame him up instead. Wrench is not squeezing, his hand just there, and his eyes are burning holes into Numbers'. They are still dancing. He can't look away, so he keeps singing.

      A sharp breath comes out of Wrench's nose as the vibrations finally run through his hand.

      "I can't do the talks... like they talk on the TV. And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to me... And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be. All I do is keep the beat and... bad company". Numbers let go of his hand and Wrench's eyes opened. The other gave a nod, like he wanted to communicate this was fine, still singing _and all I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme._  He moved to put both hands on Wrench's waist. Wrench has seen other people dance like this, but has never done it. It's easier with an arms around his neck. There's no space between them like that.

      Mark Knopfler was singing _when you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?,_ when the hand on his Numbers' throat slid to the back of his neck. Wrench didn't pulled, just rested it there. The dancing turns into a light swing, forgotten for a moment. He feels a hard beating and can't tell if it's coming from him or Grady. When he run his fingers through his neck, the beat fasten. It's him. Numbers is staring, like he is waiting for something, has being waiting since the hospital or before. Wrench don't pull, but leans in. It is not really a kiss, just lips pressed together and quickly pulling away. Not enough to get a taste, but enough to know his lips are soft and warm and he wants more.

      When he do it again, he feels like seventeen, kissing a boy for the first time in the a broom's closet of juvy, more afraid than aroused. But he knew, that time, the juvy's fag wouldn't pull away. He wanted protection, he was willing to trade some make out and suck the deaf kid's dick for it. Wrench was inspired by him when he was the one in need of protection or a shot of heroin to make the feeling of abandonment go away. When he did it the third time, he remembered wanting to do that since he was thirteen and they would share a bed because the old house didn't have heater, waking up with Grady curled up next to him and couldn't stop looking at those lips he was kissing now.

      Wide pupils on the dark eyes keep staring back at him, eyebrows frowning like he didn't know how to do other thing with his face. As far as invitations go, that wasn't one, but Wrench took it anyway and leaned in again. He needed a reaction, so this time let them there, resting over his, feeling the mustache tickling his cheek, the strong smell of alcohol and trees. A hot breath splashed on his face and Grady moved from his frozen state. Their lips brushed, and he sucked at Wes' top lip, stretching it between them before letting go. Numbers put their foreheads together. Wrench opened his eyes for a moment to see him shake his head, eyes shut hard, torn and maybe mad, biting his bottom lip before reaching up to grab Wrench's head with both hands. Their mouths crashed together forcefully enough that Wrench had to move a foot for balance. Numbers tongue was in his mouth, teeth banging, biting, climbing onto him. The squeeze of those hands on his head wasn't subtle, but strong, pulling Wrench's hair and ears like he would take them off. It felt like he was not invited to participate of that moment, but was being claimed by something that would burn the world down.

      Wes was never kissed like Grady was kissing him, like he doesn't want him more than he _needed_ him. It's strange. It's his time to be frozen, letting that wild force of nature take all it wants out of him. There's blood on his mouth. One hand let go, grab his neck, unconsciously leaving lines of scratches as sliding down his chest, pulling clothes, coming down his back to grab his ass.

      That he can follow. Wrench pulled him too. The hand on his shoulder got to his hips, embracing it from their bodies to crash together as strong as their still locked mouths did, and he kiss him back. When they collided, something hard pressed on his tight. The hot breath was back, almost an ache. Wrench slid his hand to grab the erection pocking at him. He knew what a moan felt against his skin and that was one. But before he could touch him, Numbers put both hands on his chest to that mouth coming to meet his thirst and pushed.

      Wrench let go without a fight.

      Numbers stared at the floor, arms raised between them. When he looked up, the glow on his eyes was different. The new look sunk on Wrench's stomach. He knew what that look meant, too.  

      The other walked to the center table and Wrench saw the gun. That's it. He's fucked. He really did it this time. It's going to happen again. Numbers opened the wooden box over it and took a pack of cigarettes instead.

 _Though you quit smoking_. Even now, he couldn't stop himself from looking at Wrench as he starts signing in the corner of his eye.

      Numbers run a hand through his hair, putting back a lock that came down, and look away, licking at his dry lips. Wrench ask himself if he still could taste him there. A look down the front of his pants tells he probably could. Their eyes don't meet as he signs for  _sorry._

       _Don't be._ Numbers isn't really looking, but throwing glances while opening the pack to take a cigarette.  _I kissed you first._

 _I_ _'m going to the balcony. Know you hate the smell_.

      Right now hewouldn't really mind the other blowing smoke on his face if he would just stay and do that again, kiss him again. Be he didn't. Numbers took the lighter and passed through him to the kitchen, opened the door to the balcony, closed it behind him, didn't look back inside.

      As far as invitations go, that one told him to fuck off.

 

      Many years of spending his nights upon eminent danger taught Mr. Wrench to always be alert. His instincts didn’t turn off even with his eyes closed. The last thirty minutes he spent rolling around in a state of arouser and mourning, only recently surrendering to exhaustion still under the lethargic effect of four, maybe five glasses of wine. So, when something moved on his bed, he hasn't being sleeping for long and was instantly awake and ready. In an involuntary movement, one hand searched for the pistol in reach as his eyes opened.

      The light from the lamp on the nightstand had been lit and the intrusive figure in his bed came into focus; he relaxed and gave up the Colt in the middle of the path. It was just Numbers. The relieve soon left with the realization that  _it was Numbers_ , no  _just_ about it.

      His partner was sitting on the edge of the bed, face half concealed in the darkness, motionless, eyes locked in his under frowned brows. Wrench shifted under the sheets.

 _Fargo?_ he tried out, brows up to form a question.

      Numbers reached and took his hand. Wrench's head shook in confusion, the question still there on his expression. The other only nodded _no_ and guided the taken hand up to his face, lying those fingers over his lips. They were still dry. Something inside Wrench awakes and the remaining drowsiness of sleep drifted away when Numbers said something aloud, knowing Wrench could read it on his lips and feel it with his fingertips tracing the movement of his mouth, each word spoken slowly and carefully.

 "I want you to fuck me".

      Wrench pulled the hand back and hoisted himself up by the elbow, wide-eyed, searching for something on Numbers' face that would make sense of what the thought he just saw. But all he had to an answer was him moving closer over the sheets, the true predator glare showing on his face in the dark. This time, it was his hand that came to hold Wrench's face, fingers brushing through the hard curves of his scowl, sliding down his mutton chops and neck, with a patience he handn't shown when did it before. They were warm and rough hands, worn out by a life making a fist and holding a trigger.

      Wrench couldn't remember being looked like by a man he wanted before, and he wanted to be kissed that way he was never kissed before again. Mimicking Numbers' ferocity, he threw a hand behind his head and pulled, cutting the distance between their lips, teeth pounding against each other, and the only thing he felt was a mouth filled with hair of his beard when he turned to the opposite direction. Their found their way a second later and his mouth didn't tasted of wine, but whiskey and cigarettes. Of course it did. Wrench inhaled as deep as he could, trying to smell his skin, but could only sense smoke. He didn't push back, this time, but put a hand behind his neck to pull him closer into a hard kiss. His hair was soft. Wrench felt an uncomfortable rush when the other stuck both hands on his own, remembering not washing them for over a week now, curls stiff and oily. It didn't matter when Numbers bit his bottom lip and pressed him down.

      Without separating their mouths, he climbed upon the bed, looking for a comfortable position to continue kissing. Wrench let himself be pushed back down and felt him lie above, the weight of another body pressing him against the mattress. Their mouths parted only when Numbers found it difficult to find an entrance on the sheets to touch skin. He came back up when he found it, but stopped halfway, hands inside Wrench's shirt. Their eyes lingered on one another, nothing much to see in the low light. He pressed their foreheads together once more. Fingers traveled down his partner's chest and abdomen. He could feel more of him he ever felt and still it wasn't enough.

      Wrench stirred, the weight of Numbers on his stomach starting to make it difficult to breathe. The movement of his legs was seem as an invitation, for Numbers also shifted, placing himself on the raised knee, brushing lightly against his thigh. Wrench's eyes widened again and he looked down. Numbers was not wearing any clothes. He looked back up, searching for something in his face, but before he could find it, there was a tongue tucked into his throat and teeth tugging at his lips.

      Wrench pushed him off. The look Numbers shot back for it was pure surprise, then he sat up on his thighs and scratched one arm, the light from the lamp only enough to see how sheepish he looked in the dark.

 _Do you want me to leave?_ He asked after a few blinks.

      Wrench shook his head in denial. _You're drunk._

      His shoulders came up as he laughed. There was an amused smile gleaming on his lips as he answered: _Not drunk. Yes, I had a drink or two, but not drunk._ And hesitated before signing the next thing.  _How can you do what you do for living and be this soft?_

      The answer he got for that was Wrench moving his hips forward. A notoriously hard cock brushed against Numbers' ass with the movement, the other flashing a smile from below him. _Soft?,_ his hands and eyebrows said.

      Numbers rolled eyes so hard it was visible even in the dark.

      Wrench got up in a jump and pulled him by the back of the neck, but stopped before the kiss. Numbers opened the eyes he'd closed as he felt the approach and fingers pulling at his hair. There was still concern on Wrench's face. He seemed to be looking for something, perhaps some indication Numbers was not lying about being sober. He held up one hand, the other still in his hair. _Are you sure about this?_

      The question seemed to annoy him for a moment, the next he was wrapping Wrench's shoulders with one arm and bringing the other hand between his legs to give a hard squeeze. The erection growing against his thigh throbbed at touch. His thumb found the tip of the head and drew circles over it through the briefs. Wrench took hold of his waist.

      "Pretty sure, yeah", Numbers declared aloud. "Shut up already and come here".

      Their mouths met once more, hands everywhere, feeling every bit of exposed skin. Wrench squeezed Numbers' naked ass and felt him groan inside his mouth. Then threw him back on the mattress, now getting on top, mouths parting as he felt the other's desperate hands trying to take off his shirt. Wrench got up and removed it. Looking down on Numbers licking and biting his lips, lying naked on his bed between his thighs, was a sight that made him stop for a moment. Couldn't look much before the other pulled him down. A smile came to his lips as he felt hands around his jaw once more, fingers brushing hard against his mutton chops, and Numbers kissed it before running a tongue over. Wrench would try to remember that the next time the other was an ass about them; apparently, he didn't dislike the new feature as much as he said.

      The hands were removed from his face and pinned to the mattress, fingers intertwined, as he began to descend the kisses. Numbers wrapped both legs around his waist. The sounds he made as Wrench's tongue slid through the tattoo on his collar vibrated all over his body. It was the  _boundaries_ one; it didn't meant anything now. Wrench bit at it like he could take the thing off, like he's making a stand. Numbers gasped, hips pushing forward, and hands under Wrench's domain struggled to break free. He almost succeed. Wrench often forgot how strong his partner could be, used to having slender men under him, but managed to push him back down. Not yet. He was too aggressive and Wrench wants to make it last, kiss every tattoo and scar on his body, smell his skin, feel the vibrations of his chest, just in case he wouldn't get to do this again, whatever _this_ is.

      Following the trail of hair on his stomach, Wrench had to let go of his hands. Numbers pulled his hair with force as soon gave freedom. Some involuntary groaning of pain came out, to what the strength subsided a little, a soft touch replacing it as Wrench bent down to take his hard cock in his mouth. Numbers was already throbbing. Fingers tightened around his skull once more, short nails tucked into skin as he jerked Wrench's head down. He choked at the sudden movement. Shit. Pushing him back into the mattress, he tapped Numbers' tight so he would open his eyes.

 _Slow down!_ The ablaze expression on the face looking down at him changed, the annoyed frown resurfacing, and he flipped a finger. Wrench moved forward fast to take the insult in his mouth, watching the frown disappear again, this time replaced by a mix of surprise and arouser as he moved his tongue over and sucked at it.

      "Really, man?", was what Wrench saw on his frustrated expression before Numbers pulled the hand to push his head back down, saying something else aloud the other was too busy fulfilling the demand to read.

      He gave it a few strokes before wrapping his mouth around Numbers' cock, feeling it get harder and pulse under his tongue. It's been some time since Wrench last did that, but the involuntary trusts he's getting show his skills are still good enough to take those unconscious reactions out of him. A cock will always taste like a cock. It was the smell of Numbers what was making him hot.

      The hand resting on Numbers tight was caught and lead somewhere lower. Wrench cupped his balls and licked them, understanding this was the request, until Numbers' hand was back to correct what he want him to do. He pushed Wrench's fingers far lower. Couldn't be clearer: he wanted a finger. His legs spread over the bed when Wrench reached for it, giving more opening to his asshole. A finger played at his entrance, making circles around it, rubbing, Wrench moved down to lick him there and looked up to see Numbers watching him, hands clenched to the sheets. He mouthed "come on", or said it, too dark to know. Wrench pulled away and put his finger back, slowing reaching inside of him. The other hand, all the time resting on Numbers chest to feel his shivers and groans, caught the gasp he made at the intrusive presence in his ass. Wrench stroked his cock with no rush and went back up.

      The kiss was way softer this time. Wrench moved the finger inside of him as he moved his tongue on his mouth and felt Numbers breath long, the stink of cigarettes overcoming the smell of sex for a moment. His bottom lip stretched between them with Numbers' teeth going deep into flesh as they parted, the taste of blood overcoming the taste of cock on his mouth. Wrench rubbed his face on those fat cheeks. The beard was not soft as he remembered, but sandpaper bruising his bare skin.

      "Put another in", he said.

      Wrench went back to kiss him, spreading his legs slowly and lifting one to his shoulder, reaching down and going to suck him while at it. Numbers stopped him with a couple fast taps. He tried do sign, hands a little shaky. _Just the fingers or I will come._

      Wrench smiled. Numbers threw him an inquisitive look. He wants to sign, but one hand was busy with the fingering and the other holding his leg up. Numbers jumped at the sudden sound of his partner's voice when Wrench said: "This is a problem how?".

      It wasn't just right. The spaces between words are little off, the husky he though it was when listening to it before was actually lack of discernment about tone. But is understandable enough. Wrench never talked again since that night while drunk. The man never made a sound other than an angry breath or sigh, hasn't shout even when three shots put him down. Even when they were kids, he wouldn't talk. Somehow, it felt more intimate than the sex. Took Numbers some time to respond.

 _No_ , his fingers pressed together hard. The next thing he said aloud. "I want you in me".

      Wrench's eyes went wide again. Numbers was never going to sign him that, but talking made it easier, like it didn't count as much if he didn't get all. He seemed to get it alright. The fingers leave him. It is a herculean effort not to pull them back in. But Wrench needs both hands now.

_I don't have L-U-B-E here, and I don't know if you have done this before, but you're too tight. Need preparation. Let me make you come on my fingers._

      Numbers breathed deep to that; he hasn't being that aroused in a long time, and it's true he hadn't had a man up his ass for almost a decade. But he remembers what it felt like, and he wants that for too fucking long. Maybe he took too long admiring the idea that apparently Wrench was a pro at ass fucking, because before he could answer, the other was taking his own cock out of the briefs he's still wearing. He rubbed himself against Numbers', who gasped for air. The sensitive skin of their heads together is a new sensation for him. His toes curl over the sheets, he close his eyes and let Wrench do that a little more. When opened them again, the look Wrench was giving him alone could make him come. He still manage to give a nod at the nightstand, relieved Wrench couldn't hear the embarrassing sound he just made.

      Wrench cocked an eyebrow before looking up. There was a bag there that wasn't in the nightstand when he went to sleep; he recognized the logo from the 24-hours pharmacy closer to the apartment. He reached out and grabbed it to look inside. A bottle of lube and some condoms. He looked back at Numbers, who reached to hold Wrench's hard cock and squeezed at it, stroking a few times, as much as a invitation as he would do.

      Wrench put the bag aside and bend down to a kiss. Numbers tried to make it like the first one, hard and fast and more of a fight than a kiss, but Wrench won a slow one. He lied upon him and let himself enjoy the feeling of that beard and mustache on his face and neck, his rough hands on his back and ass, his hairy body moving underneath, his legs spread for him, feet brushing at thighs and back, the feeling of being not only wanted, but needed.

      He was back to the bag to catch the lube. Numbers eyes followed every move, stroking his own cock in anticipation while Wrench spread it on his hands. He came back up and Numbers made a move to turn around and get on his fours, but was stopped.

 _Stay this way_ , Wrench signed. _I want see you._

      Numbers stayed, watching him take position between his legs.

      He knew he wasn't a little man, both height and build just average, but he felt little with Wrench upon him, reaching down to put his fingers inside of his ass again. They slid nicer with lube. Numbers closed his eyes. He didn't want to work now, he just wanted to feel him all over, kissing his collarbone, his cheeks, his shoulders, his stomach. A third finger slid slowly inside. Numbers clenched his teeth in pain.

      "Wes", he called his name, and had no idea how he manage to know Numbers was talking to look up. He thought this may happen, the pain. Numbers took a hands off those broad shoulders to sign. _It's been awhile since I last..._  he stopped in the middle of it, arching his back and climbing back on those shoulders when the fingers inside of him hit a sensitive spot. Holly shit.  _Just give me time before_ "Fuck!", he cried aloud, and felt his ears hot to the cocky smile on his partner's face. _I'm saying go slow at first, idiot. I'm rusty on being fucked._ "And I want to be able to sit tomorrow", he added aloud, knowing that part was going to be lost in the dark.

      Wrench gave him the time asked, stopping all movement so Numbers could adjust himself, shifting around, trying to fit nicely and loosen enough so Wrench's cock wouldn't rip him in two. It slowly turns into a quite nice feeling, big hands cupping his balls and jerking him off to make it more pleasant while fingering him open. Wrench was watching him close when Numbers opened his eyes. That look warmed his insides in a dangerous, close, intimate and mess up way. He closed them again. When opened a second time, he was still watching. His eyes were dark green now and Grady knew Wes was fucking him over long before that night. He nodded; he was ready now. Wrench carefully took his fingers off, and Numbers was pined on the mattress for so long it was surprisingly easy for him to turn him over.

      He blinked, confused with seeing himself on top again. Wrench gave him a kiss and laid down signing:  _Take your time._

      Numbers was already leaking pre-come and a wave crashed his body at the thought of riding him. Probably wouldn't last that long anyway, both of them already warm up more than enough. It was amazing it was lasting that much. After months getting hard just watching him work out on the living room, Numbers was sure he was going to come just to get to touch his bare skin. How the heck Wes was doing that to him - Wes, of all people -, was a fucking mystery. Fucking Wes.

      He went back to the nightstand to take a condom and more lube. He put the condom on him and lubed his cock up and down the best he could before sitting on his tights again. Wrench grabbed his waist, fingers sticky. Numbers stood up a little, took his cock in one hand, the other leaning against the wall, and adjusted it on his entrance.

      Wrench breathed heavily, rough hands caressing his thighs and waist as Numbers get down slow and tight around his cock. It was a good idea to be on top for this, he didn't know if would take it all nicely another way. Wrench was bigger than the only other cock he ever sat on, and thicker, but didn't complain on his stops. He squeezed his ass with both hands instead, spreading his cheeks, and waited. Their eyes never left each other as Grady filled himself with Wes.

      Numbers put both hands on Wrench's chest and shifted, getting comfortable, then tried wiggle his hips. The sound Wrench made at that was so pornographic and loud even the neighbors would be turned on if they were awake. It was highly encouraging to do it again, and again. He should probably shut him up, sign he's being too fucking loud everybody on the block would know what they are doing in there, but the pressure of those fingers against his skin grew stronger, and all Numbers could think about was that he is breaking that man, that brute giant, that powerful thing, and how would anyone stop this? How would anyone not be proud of accomplish that unconscious noises from the man who is self-conscious even under a beating? Who wouldn't be hot at bending the man life couldn't bend? Let him be loud all he wanted. Let him feel good.

      Wrench was trying to keep their eyes locked, but it was hard not to close his eyes. He wanted to see it, he wanted to see him taking his cock all in, he wanted to watch him bounce on it, moaning to him, wanting him inside and all over. His lips parted, gasping for breath, hips pushing up and following the faster and faster pace Numbers was setting.

      When did he became so hot? Numbers wanted him to know that, that the sight of him sweaty and flushed and on edge was the hottest thing, so he said it. It wasn't enough, so he lifted one hand and signed for him. The only movement he managed was putting a hand to his mouth and wave it away. _Hot_. Didn't even know if the other was going to understand.

      Something clicked with the comment, as if Numbers turned on a switch. Wrench pushed himself into his ass so hard it hurt, and rose from the mattress, throwing both arms around Numbers and tugging at his hair for a quick, rough kiss, hips glued together at a fast pace. Numbers was sure the bed was moving, he was sure they were making a lot of noise, he was sure the pain in his ass would be a bitch by the morning, and nothing ever felt so damn right.

      "Bite me. Wes, bite me again" he ask breathless until Wrench would see his lips and do it, pushing teeth into skin on his shoulder. Numbers gasped and pushed him back down, kissing like before, like it was a fight, like he would take anything he was denied from him, fucking him the only way he knew how to do anything, like they both needed, until they forgot everything about boundaries and walls and fake names. The feeling was amazing while it lasted. "Shit, holly fuck, Wes!" Grady heard himself saying at some point, and heard the loud slap of Wes' strong hands spanking his ass. He gave up a yelp. He was close. Wes slapped his ass again, increasing the rhythm. He knew Grady was going to come. He stood up again, hugging him tightly, pulling him close as his body begin to tremble, losing rhythm, much given to pleasure to continue. He wanted to see his face as he came. His eyes were closed, but he tried to keep them open to watch Wes' face, teeth clenched tightly as he fucked his body hard. Grady stuffed his nails into his shoulders as he came into their stomachs, his whole body relaxing, weak, contracting with Wes still inside his ass, a big hand jerking him off through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

      Wrench dropped back onto the mattress, Numbers on top of him. They breathed heavily. Numbers knew if he closed his eyes now, he would go to sleep. He could hear the upbeat of Wrench's heart, feel his hands lazily stroking his back. But he could not sleep now. Not yet.

      Lifting from Wrench's arms tightly around his waist, went to searched his face in the dark. He was sweaty, curly hair sticking to his forehead, blurry eyes trying to focus on Numbers hands, beautiful. _Did you finish?_ His face turned from an expression of pure pleasure to extreme discomfort in seconds. He looked away, considering lying, but he would still know if he lied, so Wrench shook his head. _No._

      Numbers frowned at him with mouth open, but was soon coming closer to a kiss. It was as hard and sloppy as the last ones. His hand reached down to remove the condom, replacing it with a squeeze, lightly stoking before picking up a pace. Wrench sighed, burying his face on the curve of his neck and holding him close as Numbers rolled over, kissing his shoulders. He pulled out and said something. If lip-reading wasn't already a nightmare, doing it in the dark while getting a hand-job did the trick. Wrench tried to focus as he keep talking, not wanting him to stop to sign.

      "Are you clean?", he said again.  _Hardly_ , Wrench thought, the smell of sweat and sex all over him. When the other licked at his lips, he understood he wasn't talking about that. Alright, then. He nodded him yes. Numbers nodded back, taking the hand out of his cock. Before he could protest, he was kissing his chest, stomach, the inside of tight and taking it again to put in his mouth. He looked up as sliding his tongue over the head. Wrench took hold of his shoulder and hair.

      It didn't take long for him to pick up from where they stopped and feel his orgasm building up. Numbers gave head like it isn't the first time he has a dick on his mouth, but it didn't matter, not with him taking all of it, head to base, until Wrench hit his throat. And he kept looking up while doing it, like he wanted to make sure it was alright. Wrench let him know it was. It was more than alright. He tried to push him off when couldn't hold back anymore. Numbers held steady, increasing speed, ignoring the jerk on his shoulders or the fingers trying to pull his head away. Wrench didn't wanted to come on his mouth. Actually, he wanted to, but had no idea how Numbers would take it.

      "Grady...", he called his name, his real name, and it seemed to be that turning the switch of Numbers on, because he starts sucking harder, licking as his cock came in and out of his mouth and jerking what he couldn't lick. Wrench couldn't hold it anymore and came into his mouth.

      Numbers held on and swallowed to the end, licking the head over and cleaning him up with his tongue with no hurry this time. When he lifted his head, there was cum stuck on his beard. He smiled, and often Numbers smiled and meant nothing by it, but that one meant many things. Grady crawled back up to lay down beside Wes on the bed, their arms and leg touching, both trying to control their breathing.

      His hand was right on his side. Wrench wanted do hold it, but he didn't. Silence enveloped them. It was... _good_.

      The nice feeling gradually grew into estrangement as the time passed and nothing happened.

      That was it. They fucked. They _finally_  had sex. Both could feel this was building up, mainly on the last weeks, but it was different to have it as something that could happen and actually do it. And it was way different from what Wrench had imagined. He thought they would first fuck on a shitty motel somewhere or inside a car, in the middle of a job, maybe after one of them got hurt. It would be hard and fast and filled with that being-alive euphoria. If happening home, they would probably be both drunk and pretend nothing happened the morning after. Always fast, hot and somehow impersonal; only lust and relieve for all those years of sexual tension building up. It wasn't just the last weeks.

      This, now, wasn't like any of it. This, now, was personal. The kisses and looks they shared in the middle of it weren't just sex. Should he hold Grady now, or excess of intimacy would ruin what they just had? He wanted do hold him. He wanted to tell him how he makes him feel. But he wouldn't. They weren't like that. Whatever they are like, Wes is not sure anymore, he just knows what they aren't.

      The bed shook with movement. Wrench turned his neck to look aside. Numbers was getting up. He starts walking to the door. He was leaving, but of course he was. Whatever it was, it was only clear what it wasn't.

      Grady reached to the door and turned the lights on. Wes blinked hard to the brightness, eyes adjusting until he could see him standing naked at the open door to his bedroom. It felt even more real in the light. He was a mess; hair out of place, bite marks on his shoulders, body hair sticky with sweat and semen, that weird and ugly tattoos on his tights, his dick soft, come on his beard. Wes thought he never looked so beautiful. Numbers moved his hands, thumbs up following the lines of his neck.  _Bath_. Wrench nodded. He turned around to leave, but stopped. The next sign was made with an impatient frown.  _Come on!_

      Wes couldn't have being up and after him faster. 

 

      He woke up in bed alone, facing the door, at the far edge of the mattress. The sheets smelled funny and his mouth tasted like ass. There's something on his teeth. Wrench moved it around, spit on his thumb, looked at the thick and short hair with a frown. A black pube. Only then his sleepy mind remembers of Numbers, and remembers everything.

      Remembers going after him to the bathroom and smiling to himself with all the wobbling before realizing it wasn't caused by the fucking, but the alcohol. He _was_ drunk. Wrench should have known better. That much wine and who knows how much whiskey? Or course he was. Still, when Numbers asks if he isn't entering the shower too, he does. And clean him up, the come on his face and stomach, let himself be soaped too until they are not bathing anymore, but pressed together against the wall, kissing and touching and fucking again. He remembers sinking to his knees and eating him up, remembers wanting to do that for some time, him telling that's a first and laughing, but shutting that smile a moment later to call him names under his breath as closing his eyes tight. Wrench remember being told that feels good, that he is apparently a bastard for doing that, and Numbers turning around from the wall to ask him to get inside of him again. Which he did. It must have being harder to get him on his fours like that. Of course Numbers was drunk, and Wrench should have known better.

      Should have stopped him when after they finally took that bath, the other headed back to _his_ room and crawled into _his_ bed. Shouldn't have climbed there beside him and hugged him closer, smelling the soap on his skin and thinking his back fit perfectly into his chest, like it was costume made, like he belonged there all along. Shouldn't have let himself feel something he haven't felt in years, maybe never felt before, a feeling so strange he only understood what it was when the breathing of him evened out and he was asleep first, something so odd, knowing of Grady's sleep problem, a warm hand on his cock that wasn't his own for a change. He felt happy. He shouldn't, because of course, he slept with Numbers on his arms and woke up alone.

      Wrench sat up on the bed, scratching one eye with a palm. He needs coffee. Black. No sugar. Something to take that taste out of his mouth. He needs clothes. The shirt is found on the floor, the briefs kneaded in the middle of the sheets. The bag from the pharmacy Numbers bough last night was still there on the nightstand. He opened the top drawer, swept everything inside with an arm, put on the shirt, got up to wear his underwear, found a glass of whiskey on the foot of the bed and a cigarette butt. The butt was put inside the glass and carried with him as opened the bedroom door to go to the kitchen. The hall smelled of pancakes. Numbers was home.

      In the back of his mind, Wrench had come to terms Numbers was probably off for the day. Engaged in a new assignment, he would delay coming back as long as he could, avoiding him, or maybe wouldn't come back at all.

      But Numbers was there in the balcony when Wrench stepped out of the hall and into the kitchen.

      Leaning on the porch, he had a mug on his hand. Apparently, he was awake for a while. His hair was already done. He has on the burgundy shirt and dark pants that goes with a suit. The expensive clothes suit him indeed.

      The sound of steps coming inside the kitchen caused him to raise his head. Looking over the shoulder, his torso turns enough for him to sketch a boneless greeting: a nod. Wrench reciprocated after a beat where they just stared, then lowered his sight, going to the sink to drop the cup. The wine glasses from last night were clean and drying out over the counter.

      Wrench took a mug, filled it with coffee and sat down to eat. Numbers made enough pancakes for both of them. While putting some on a plate, he followed out of the corner of his eyes, trying not to look like he was following, Numbers coming out of the balcony. He went to the cabinet, took a plate, got some clean cutlery in the sink, walked over and sat across the table. He filled his own plate with the remaining pancakes. The smell of tabaco took over the nice aroma of breakfast food. Numbers was smoking again.

      They ate in silence, hands occupied, but once in a while Numbers raised his head to look forward, then Wrench did it, and in some moments they both looked at the same time and their eyes just froze there as they chewed the food. It feels like before, like they're waiting for something to happen. Numbers finished his breakfast first and grabbed a tangerine from the bowl. He licked at his sticky fingers every time a new gome went to his mouth. The staring finally got into his skin. When he finally signed something, his browns frowned deeply.

_Quit staring._

      Wrench's face was plain, mouth in a thin line when he rose his hands to make a statement.  _You were drunk._

      Numbers sighs again, run a hand through his beard, scratching it, shifting around on the chair, clearly uncomfortable. He look away and eat his fruit. Wrench throws his hand over the table, as he always does when demand to be look at. Numbers jumps.

 _Yes,_  he said, fist knocking in the air two times, then rubbed a circle over his chest.  _Sorry._

 _Are you leaving?_  Wrench let go of the fork to put his wrist together two times. _Work?_

 _Soon,_  was all he got in response.

      The uncomfortable staring in silence was back. None of them looks away this time.

_Do you remember?_

_Can we not talk about this for now?_

      Wrench shook his head and made a fast movement with both hands, little fingers and thumbs out.  _Now._ Numbers held an annoyed gaze, slowly changing it into defeat. He put the rest of the tangerine down.

      "Alright". Anxious fingers tapped the table, eyes staring right back at him. His hand went up to do a gesture: cupped palm going to his mouth and quickly away, as if touching something burning. It's the sign for "hot". Wrench's eyes shot open.  _I remember,_ Numbers said.  _A little drunk, not that drunk. What was that about? Was never told you are hot?_

Wrench didn't know what to say to that, so only pressed his lips together again. He knew his ears were red because of the way Numbers just snorted.  _I don't know_ , he finally answer.  _Maybe they do, b_ _ut I never had it signed to me before._

He can't recognize the expression on Numbers' face across the table, or begin to imagine he is thinking he should have left before Wrench woke up, like he planed to, like he sneaked out of the arms around his waist to, and even got dressed to. But no, he kept stalling. Making pancakes. Doing the dishes. Being the contradictory asshole he always was. And now they have to do this.

 _I'm not blaming last night on the drinking._ Numbers licked his lips, still staring without a blink. Wrench felt under the aim of a gun.  _Are you?_ He nodded no. _But you understand why we can't do this,_ partner _?_ His hands came down hard, emphatic on the last word, eyebrows arched. Wrench nodded yes, then changed his mind, did the sign for  _maybe_. He wanted to know what was his point. Numbers sighed, running a hand through his face once more. He wasn't looking at Wrench when signed:  _I care about you. I shouldn't, but I do._

Wrench nodded, just an acknowledgement gesture. Numbers waited like he was expecting him to say it back, but he couldn't right now. All he could do was keep staring and wait to be abandoned again.

_They said if we grew too close for the job, we could always just split._

_What are you telling me?_  He was conscious about how hard and loud his hands clapped together, Numbers eyes blinking at the shock.  _That's why you went to the last jobs alone?_

 _I care about you. I shouldn't, but I do_ , he repeated. Wrench didn't nod this time.  _I meant what I said when we began doing partners. I'm not letting you get me killed. We keep doing this and partners, the next time they will put a mark on our heads. You know this._

_They don't pay us enough to have a saying on who we fuck._

"This not about-!".

Numbers let go of the knife he didn't know when held and shook his head. Screaming is pointless. He tries to ease himself enough to sign.

 _You're right. They don't. Do you think I care about this? You're not the first man I fuck._ Wrench blinks, frowning, and fast looks away. Numbers can still laugh at the childish reaction. "Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you". He does, and Wrench's face is contorted into fury. Is he recovered enough for a physical fight? Numbers hope to God he isn't, this shirt is too nice to be torn. _This is not about last night. This is about me being sure if someday someone put a knife to my throat and asks who send us, and I know they're going for you next, I'm going to spit every name I can recall to keep them away from you._

Numbers is up in a jump, turning his back too fast for Wrench to say anything. Wrench glimpsed at a pack of cigarettes being taken out of his pocket before he would reach the balcony, working in large steps to get away from that table.

He didn't know what to say to that, either. He didn't know anything about what they're doing, or what he was supposed to do with the information Numbers gave him. The other was right, this is the kind of shit that got smart men killed. This is not smart. If you have a soft spot, they would hit you in there. No one get to live much on this kind of life without being a selfish asshole.

      Wrench followed him. Numbers quickly turned and covered his face with one hand, trying to hide himself, slightly moving away when Wrench got to his side, but not resisting when his arms went up to wrap around his frame and pull him close. The strength to fight long leaved his body. Wrench smelled too good, felt too good, and Numbers was too fucking tired. Wrench placed a soft kiss at the top of his head. When he got no protest to it, he kissed his ear, his cheeks, neck, everywhere in reach.

      Numbers reached up, putting his own arms around his shoulders, and pushed him down. Their mouths didn't crashed, but were placed together. The kiss was different. It tasted like breakfast and it was long and slow, most lips and light pecks, hands traveling to make soft strokes to their sides. They moved closer to each other. Wrench's bare arms and legs touched him and Numbers could feel himself getting worked up. The other must have felt it too, because he parted and looked at him, confused, them down at his pants.

 _Do you want me to...?_ Wrench let the rest of the question sink down, not knowing exactly how to deal with Numbers right now.

      "Yes", he said after pondering. Wrench frowned. Yes to what? Go away? Hug him? Kiss him? Make hot coco? Suck his cock? The answer came in form of two hands getting to his head and forcing him down, to his knees. Right, the last one.

      Numbers leaned into the wall by the window, not helping but only watching Wrench's hands working on his belt to pull down his pants and boxers. He put the cigarette back on his mouth, took a drag, parted his lips to a noiseless moan. That he could deal with. That he could understand. That was easy. Just having Wrench on his knees before him, his dick inside that hot mouth, a hand on those shoulders filled with brown freckles. Numbers watched the light of an early morning turn the hair between his finger into gold. He was beautiful. And he's way aware of thinking that too often lately, but couldn't avoid. He was; all in him born to be confusing as shit, from those blue-green eyes to blond-ginger hair and a kill-fuck kind of glare. Numbers could just let himself into the fuck one and forget all the rest.

      He pulled Wrench up by the hair. The other let out a contained groan of pain, but didn't keep the scowl on when Numbers kissed him again. In an instant, he was back on it, kicking him off the pants dropped at his tights and pushing him back inside the apartment. He reached down, grabbing his ass with both hands, pulling him up to be placed over the sink. Numbers pushed away.

       _Wet_ , he signed, a disgusted expression on his face, and lifted from the sink. Wrench just nodded and grabbed again, spinning on the kitchen with Numbers legs around his waist, vacillating because the other man was heavier than he thought, but managing to move him over the table. Numbers instantly pushed again and got down. Wrench made a face, both palms up to form a  _what_ , and the answer came with an angry pair of hands moving in front of his face to say: _you fuck me on top of this like you did last night and this thing will break!_

      _I liked you better when you were drunk,_ said Wrench and shook his head. That was more like him anyway. Numbers seemed like he was about to protest, but halfway undressed and with his dick pointing up at Wrench, he doubted anything said would have any impact. So he grabbed him by the arm instead, dragging his partner out of the kitchen and into the living room, kicking off the shoes in the way and turning to push him over the couch's arm. Wrench dropped with a loud slam. Fast hands work on get rid of his own clothes as Numbers undid the buttons of his shirt. The briefs and t-shirt are off easily. Numbers is trapped on his sleeve button, cursing at the thing, pulling and screaming a  _shit!_ when the button take off and leave a rip behind. When Wrench laughs, he looks over, and the naked man on his couch lazily touching himself while waiting for him to join seem much more interesting right now than his ruined favorite shirt, so Numbers throws the thing away and jump on him.

      He tries that again, rubbing the heads of their dicks together. Wrench lifted himself by the elbow in a uncomfortable way, holding the back of the couch for balance, and moves his hips to meet Numbers' as possible under the weight on his thighs. He dropped back when couldn't support himself on the small space anymore and the other laid above, coming down to place their mouths together. Wrench moved his free hand over Numbers chest and stomach, playing with the forest of body hair and rubbing a thumb in circles over his nipples. Numbers shivers, tries to keep focused on what he's doing, but don't know, don't remembers or just don't push Wrench's foreskin back. Maybe he didn't fuck that many men, after all. Wrench smiles. He finds it oddly cute, think about discovering all the little things about Numbers, and move to take his hand away. Opening the eyes he has shut, Numbers watch Wrench take them both on his hand. Shit. That's better. Wrench stops for a moment to look for a better position, move Numbers to his lap, and with both sitting now he can kiss him while moving his hand up and down their erections.

      There's no bites and hard fingers this time, just bodies pressed together.

      Numbers came fast. Too fast. He cursed again, didn't saw Wrench's attempt to tell him _it's fine,_ just moved and bend down to suck his cock. It was fast, eager, Wrench was caught by surprise and knew he wouldn't last long in that rhythm. Numbers pulled out when the first shot of cum hit his tongue, came up to kiss him and finished with his hand, enjoying him moaning inside his mouth as letting them both feel the same taste. Wrench came on the couch, carpet and their legs.

      Numbers rolled Wrench off the couch so he could lie down. He played with his short and sweaty curls, moving the back of his hands through those sideburns. Wrench leaned into the touch, sitting on the floor, resting his back to the couch, and tried to clean the mess of cum spread on the carpet with Numbers' shirt. He actually didn't care for that, just didn't want to look at Numbers. Not yet. He knew that conversation wasn't over, they just shut it with sex for a moment. But couldn't delay it forever.

      In the meantime, Numbers wouldn't be able to think about it right now even if he wanted to and just stared at the ceiling, content, drowsy, enjoying feeling him close although his curls were stiff and oily.

      Wrench looked up.

_Why do you have this on your chest?_

      Numbers frowned, confused, then looked down to his chest. A word appears to him upside down. _Boundaries_.

      He looks up the ceiling again and don't say anything for so long Wrench thinks he is not going to answer.

      Putting all fingers to his temple, he moved them away.  _I don't know._  But he knew, and Wrench knew it too. _I was..._  One hand tried to arrange his messy hair and he closes his eyes. When opened them, he glance down. _A reminder. I think I'm done being alone_ , he said. _But I can't. I trusted people before. We are born alone and we are going go die alone. May as well live alone, too._

 _It could mean something else._  Wrench ran a hand through his chest, stopping on his collarbone to trace each letter with his fingers.

 _Yeah? Like what?_ , he asks.

 _Between us_ , he touched his cheek, the scar from where he was stabbed almost two years ago barely visible anymore. Then moved his eyes around their apartment before pointing outside.  _And who we are with them_. _Boundaries. We don't let this affect our work._

 _I don't know if it work like that, Wes._ The difference between what the sign for  _wrench_ is and the sign name for Wes the made-up together someday while drunk is subtle, but is there.

      _It could._ He shrugs.  _The years I wasn't with you almost killed me. I don't want to do that again._ _We are smart. I'm_ _smart,_ he corrected right away, a playful smile on his lips. Numbers flipped him off and laughed, mouth widely forming the word "asshole". _I understand. We can't have soft spots. But I don't care you being my soft spot. I think you are hard enough for the job._

       _You thought_ _B-I-L-L was hard enough for the job, too?_

It's impossible Numbers would know what he is talking about, but that name was enough to make his chest heavy. Wrench look away. It isn't sadness, he notice, but anger. Inconsistently, his nostrils inflate and he sucks a great deal of air audibly. It is not necessary to be an expert in body language to know this was a topic to be avoided, and Numbers was - sort of, although he was never known for being subtle. He pokes Wrench with an elbow.  _It was like this with him?_

Fingers are pressed together so hard a slap echoes in the air.  _NO!_

 _It was never like this with anyone_ , he said under that unblinking predador gaze that just wouldn't give up. So Wrench gave up. He sighed, turning so they would have a better view of each other.  _I liked him. He made me better. Smarter. Maybe the only friend I had apart from you._

Numbers raised himself by the elbow, nodding Wrench to keep going. The other struggled to move forward. It wasn't the image he wanted Numbers to have from his former partner, and especially not the image he would paint of himself to anyone.

_I kissed him once. It was... Not good. He punched me and pointed a gun to my face. Thought he would kill me._

"What the fuck?!" the other instantly screamed out, pulling himself up all the way. "The little shit didn-... And you fucking _let him_?!"

 _Wait._  Numbers raised a hand, lips parted, eyebrows joined hard over incredulous eyes. _You though I was going to do the same?_ When Wrench didn't answer, just tilted his head to the side, Numbers bared his teeth."Fuck you, man! Oh, come on!", he shouted aloud.  _I would never do something this messed up to you. If the asshole wasn't dead already, I was going to open him up gut to throat._

 _He wasn't an asshole_. Wrench's gestures were sharp and his face a stone. Numbers cursed, thought about arguing, but he wasn't in the mood for fighting Wrench. He wanted to fight that dead bastard he was thinking (not jealous, just curious) was probably the other idiot Wrench had wrapped around his finger with that fucking ugly half-smile of his.

As if it was capable of reading minds, that cocky closed mouth half-smile was what he got all of sudden.

  _Is this your strange way of saying you like me?_

 _I don't think it's the first time you ask me this._ It isn't an answer, just an attempt to move away from that topic. Numbers just told him, more than once only that morning, and got nothing in return. He was too proud to say it again. They both knew it, anyway.

 _It isn't _,__ said Wrench. _The first time, you said I wasn't that bad of a partner._

 _You're not that bad at other things, too._ His eyebrows rocked up and down in a suggestive way. It was Wrench's time to laugh, a thing made with only a mouth opening and no sound coming out.

It was like being crushed by a wave and not being able to swim back to surface. Wrench's body was heavy, full, build, different from his own and nothing like the women he had in the past years. There's some violence to it, but Numbers knows it's mostly his. He can't help himself, it's an involuntary movement of his limbs to fight as drowning. He is not comfortable with giving up control, but something on Wrench just take over and he wants, needs, to give up everything he though he knew about himself.

Maybe they were just delaying the inevitable with sex again, but Wrench was up for it as many times as Numbers wanted. Maybe they would never stop if they never get to the end of that talk. Maybe they could do it, on their own weird way, after all nothing about them was ever usual. And it was good. And maybe they didn't deserved a good thing, but maybe they did.

 Wrench could see that tattoo on his ankle clearly from that angle, laid down on the couch, Numbers on top of him, as he did the thing the other liked the most last night. It's different when he is sober, well aware of the exposed position he is in and that Wrench is grabbing the tattoo he made for him over a decade ago, when he though he was never coming back and was afraid of forgetting. His mouth move faster, eager, tongue stretching him open and he moans louder than he intended to do. Wrench responds, a hash breath, strong hands holding his hips in place.

 He is sore from the toughness of last nigh, but Wrench is not to blame, only his own carelessness. If anything, he was too gentle. Numbers expected him to throw him over, pushing inside dry and hard, to be chocked, mistreated, and expected to bleed. Didn't know why, didn't care. Maybe it was his self-destruction button working, the idea of punishment for the day he was obligated by the syndicate to leave the only person that never left him, to hurt the only person that never hurt him. It was absurd, he had black eyes and sore knuckles and shirts stained with blood from all the times they did hurt each other, but it didn't felt like enough. It didn't felt like it meant something more than screaming to a person that can't hear your voice. It's pointless. He loves him with the same intensity he hates everything else. Maybe that's why.

 It was frustrating to feel like you don't deserve nothing but violence and get those kisses and niceness in return. Numbers knew what to do with him when he looked at Wrench and saw hatred staring back, but didn't know what to do with this, now, him with a hand on his lower back, other stroking his cock, coaching him into pushing back himself on his own time to devour him. When Wrench finally moved, Numbers' eyes didn't roll back, but open wide, a high needy sound he didn't recognize coming out of his mouth. Wrench pounded his prostate again, taking a hint off that reaction he just found it. A good hint, seeing the way Numbers reached behind to grab Wrench's skin so hard he would leave a bruise.

 No. He needed to do him first.

Wrench is taken by surprise when Numbers push him away, eyes wide, apparently afraid he may have done something wrong. He is not enlighten when Numbers says:  _Your turn. What do you want?_

The confused, but still glowing red with arouser and sweat face in front of him change into a scowl. Numbers glare shift around his features, the smile turning into a frown, realizing, but never going to ask, if is this the first time someone asks him that. Takes Wrench a moment to think of something, where Numbers just touch the parts of his body he didn't touched before. He licks the scar on his shoulder, stomach, his knee, the stabbing ones on his back from prison time he did for both of them and that almost ended them if they weren't so devout to stay together. Wrench let him, and didn't asked for anything other than what Numbers was willing to give. The other ends riding him again, somehow picking in the middle of it that Wrench's eyes widen and his body react when he sign dirty things.

 _Do you like this?,_ Numbers hands asked as his body came up and down on his lap, and Wrench could only stare and nod.  _Do you want me to tell you how good it feels to have your cock inside of me?_ The sound he made was different, a sharp breath, and a deep thrust forward made Numbers stop for a moment to stabilize himself. Wrench didn't stopped, but kept going, eyes fixed on him as Numbers dig all the ASL he could recall on that situation. Shit, it was hard to sign like this. Wrench gasped for air, hands on Numbers tights making a stronger grip, as he was told to do it, to come inside of him, to fill him up _._ Wrench's face and neck were bright red when he did, a longer and louder moan coming out of his throat as hot cum spurted inside of him Numbers instantly descended down his leg.

Wrench hold steady, moving him up and down on his still hard cock and watching as his come leaked out of Numbers in awe until he starts softening. Only then let go of the grip. Numbers got out of his lap to sat at his side on the couch, panting on his own. He watched Wrench trying to catch his breath, eyes tightly closed, and could not help but feel that hint of pride again.

 He tapped Wrench in the arm. _I always though cowboys liked to ride, not to be ride._

The laugh he made was louder than any other Numbers heard him do before. And though it was not pleasant to hear, when Wrench realized the sound and stopped Numbers wished it lasted longer.

 _I can do both,_ he said, and suddenly the other stopped smiling and rolling his earlobe between thumb and index to reclaim the frown back. He looked confused. It took Wrench only a second to understand that look. He laughed again, this time with no sound, and left the living room, Numbers watching him leave, letting himself enjoy the view.

By the time those heavy steps came back, Numbers already had his head dropped back on the couch, thinking about going after him if he would take longer to just catch the damn lube. What he didn't expect, as opening his eyes, was to see his partner on that stupid fringed jacket.

 _You said you wanted to be ride by a cowboy?_ As much as he tried to make a straight face, it was hard with Numbers full laughing so hard he bend over his knees. Wrench approached, pulling him back up so he could leap on his thighs, and when Numbers finally managed to move his sight away from that monstrosity he for some reason bought (it was worst than the last one, wasn't it?) and back to his face, Wrench's eyes where a mix of mockery and craving.  _Do you want me to put on the boots too?_

"I fucking hate you", he said between laughs, but couldn't know if the message got through because one instant later he was being thrown back on the couch with Wrench's mouth coming to meet his. Wrench's cock is sticky, having come inside of him just a few minutes ago, and Numbers is already worked up from before. He knew it just wouldn't work that time. Fucking ugly jacket. He is never letting him know the first time he saw him on that thing, was the first time he noticed how attractive Wes has become.

Numbers shifted for them to change positions and took the jacket off him. He put on himself. Wrench laughed, but didn't get to do it for long, because fast Numbers was back pushing himself down his cock and riding him again.

The fringes jumped on his face, it was unnecessarily hot, made a lot of noise that sounded similar to the ones when Wrench signed too fast, but Numbers didn't take it off. He put a hand on Wrench's knee instead, other on his shoulder for balance, and threw his head back as he jumped up and down looking for that longing sensation he just had when laid on the couch's arm before. Wrench shifted and he found it. He gasped, and grabbed his shoulder so hard Wrench knew it was right there and tried to slow him down, make it last, but Numbers kept coming down even harder. He let go to push the jacket to the ground, too hot to keep it on as a joke. Wrench pushed forward to take his nipple between teeth, hand jerking him off. If he wants it fast, then be fast. Numbers kept going until he couldn't anymore, saying something aloud Wrench wasn't paying attention to, and just hold him, like he did last night, and let Wrench finish him off.

After he came, Numbers dropped on the space left on the couch.

He said something, eyes closed and face half hide in the cushions. It seemed like the same thing he said before. Wrench didn't pay attention again, too busy grabbing his ass and just looking at him as fishing himself. Numbers noticed, but by now Wrench knew he was the type who just couldn't keep up with anything after his own orgasm, so didn't wait for him to come back. He also didn't seem to mind being groped and stared. Numbers watched him finish, breath already in place, and waited for Wrench to open his eyes and look back at him.

 _Pass my cellphone over_ , said Numbers, and pointed at the object over the table at his partner's reach. Wrench just arched his eyebrows, the question implicit on his facial expression.  _It's ringing non-stop for at least five minutes._

Wrench's eyes widened, to what Numbers only smiled, seeing him reach over the thing in a jump to throw it at his chest.

Numbers sat up before even looking at the name showing on the display. He was going to ignore it, after all he didn't have to be on the assignment until the next day - being dressed and living today was just an attempt to get away from this, but he's glad he didn't -, but the insistence could mean something new was playing around.

Numbers cleared his throat. "Make it quick", was the first thing he said on the phone, surprising himself with how plain he sounded for a naked man covered in cum. Wrench watching him close to catch what is happening didn't help. He made a sign when noticed it, the _blab_ one they have for Mr. Jergen. "I said quick", Numbers cut the other off, calm, but threatening, as moving a finger through the thin patch of blond hair on Wrench's chest. "That doesn't sound right for what you offer before". Wrench shoved his hand away and made a face.  _Professional!,_ he signed. Numbers hold a laugh from his voice, but showed it on his expression. "That sounds better. Alright, we'll take care of it".

He was about to hang up, but then waits, listen, lick his lips and when talks again, it's hash. "Yes, we". He stand up, and Wrench can't read his lips anymore, but he says: "How are you still alive with a mouth this big is a mystery to all of us, Mr. Jergen. Goodbye".

 _Work_ _calling_?, Wrench asks, even already knowing the answer.

 Numbers nods and put the phone away. He look down at Wrench on the couch, and it's clear this situation is still a bit strange to him when he can't keep himself from looking at his dick. Wrench doesn't mind, he is studying the tattoos on his body too.

Suddenly, Numbers gives him a kick on the leg, a thoughtful expression on his face, then ignore Wrench's fake painful expression to approach and sat on his lap. He gives a few jumps, as if trying a new bed, and opens a dangerous smile.

 _Your leg seems good enough,_ he signs. _Do you want to come back to work?_

Wrench smiles back.

 

* * *

 PART XII

_As far as invitations go_

* * *

 

      The dream started where the last job went bad: there's someone else inside the house. Only this time, the shadow has a gun and is Wes' father; a big man with ginger mullets and an sullen squared face, facial hair growing uneven, a mole on his right cheek identical to the one his partner has. Sometimes, Numbers can see him on Wrench's face. It made him sick.

      He remember screaming, in the dream, for Wrench to look out. The rest is a collection of blurs. There's a pursue. The house is bigger in the dream and he can't find Wrench anywhere. That night on the job, Numbers only heard the glass crashing, but in the dream he can see the moment the shadow push a heavy body through the second floor window. Suddenly, he's looking at Wrench from above. There's some weight on his chest as watching his back hit squarely the spikes in the yard he missed for only a couple feet that night, in the real world. That feels real, in the dream, Wrench impaled by the stomach, green eyes wide open looking right back, a string of blood dripping from his parted lips. When the shadow turns, it's not Wes' father anymore, but himself. So Numbers wakes up.

      Valium gives him terrible nightmares.

      He tried Xanax and Librium before. Xanax made him put on some weight, which was already irritating enough without Wrench making all those means jokes he didn't thought Numbers was vain enough to actually care, but oh, he did. It was worst to look down at their bodies together and think "shit!" to the awful contrast of Wrench's toned frame next to his sloppy one. The endgame for Xanax was when Numbers realized he didn't really felt like touching that toned frame for, what, four weeks now? Wrench didn't complain, but Numbers knew of his partner's insecurity about the physical part of their relationship. Fuck Xanax; it's better to be awake than not being able to get it up. Then he tried Librium. It made him stop shitting, which fine by him. It was alright mainly when they're on the road. But then Wrench started to get worried, and the last thing Numbers wanted was to have another embarrassing conversation about his bathroom habits, so fuck Librium too.

      Now he uses Valium. Valium gives him nightmares. Numbers used to have them often before, but in the past years they were down to a manageable level. Valium brings them back with some extra spice.

      It isn't the same theme, thought. What used to be his father, sometimes his brother, lesser but worst times his sister or mother, more often than he would please his uncle or people he killed, turned into Wrench dying. Normally it happens after a bad job, like the last one, because it's when he can't sleep and needs his pills. He don't smoke weed to sleep anymore, not since last time, not since that bullshit they don't talk about, not since Wrench almost gave him a coke overdose and tied him up in a warehouse for what felt like days to prove a point.

The memories from that event are hazy. How much it lasted exactly, if he ate at all, when did Wrench changed his clothes covered in vomit was all blank. What he remembers is being pissed, screaming his lungs out, threatening and hating on him, digging some words like _pyscho_ and making murdering promises he wouldn't fulfill.

Wrench didn't even flinched, only waited, and watched the whole withdrawal with arms crossed over his chest, reading a stupid book, eating a burger in front of his face. Numbers barfed on those cowboy boots to that last one. It felt like torture. At some point, he asked how much and Wrench showed the empty bag. All of it. All of the fucking coke he was hiding and taking whenever Wrench was away until the day he was home earlier and found Numbers as high as it can get. Numbers knew, then, probably driven by drug paranoia, that he was dying from overdose soon.

"You are killing me. Can you... Can you understand? I'm going to die and you killed me, Wes! Why are you...?".

      Head to the ground, sweat and vomit on his face, everything was a blur of pain and nausea. Numbers could still see the hands talking in fast gestures. It was the first and only time in that warehouse the rash expression Wrench used on the job cracked.

 _You should be glad_ , Wrench said, so fast the other felt like he was going to puke again, eyes turve behind tears, _it was me who found you, not someone else_.

      Numbers understood, after that.

      And now he takes sleeping pills.

      Things get foggy and his head throbs when he sits up on the bed. The bedroom is empty, but it normally is. Wrench is a morning person. It didn't stop Numbers on missing the times they slept late together and he would kiss him awake. It was good. It isn't bad, now, only different.

      He slides to the edge of the bed, looking for his clothes in the mess of sweaty sheets. Last night was a disaster. He couldn't sleep. There's one thing that always works better than the pills, but Wrench shoved off all attempts of touching. He gets like that when he is the one hurt on an assignment. It's annoying. And Numbers is not one to give more than a couple tries, so he gave up and angrily jerked off on his leg like a dog before getting up to take a pill. Didn't know how to say he just wanted to feel him after it was so close to loose him, so he didn't. _  
_

      Took Numbers some time to be able to straight forward initiate anything sexual with Wrench without feeling like disarming a bomb, and right when this was fine, this is working, he grew comfortable enough to pull shit like last night. Shutting off, pretending to be asleep just not to have sex with him. The asshole part of him got mad, offended, wanted the  _alright let's do it_ him back. Then he remembers what Wrench told him before and gets disgusted, because he knew this ridiculous, gross, infuriating one-sided sex was the only sex presented to him before their odd thing started.

      Numbers found out by accident.

      They were sitting on the couch one night, watching the game. It was one of the early months, he knows it because it was still unnatural to him to openly approach Wrench in a sexual way. But every part of him was particularly appealing that night. The excited side comments about the match, the big hands moving with exaggerated brutality, the changes on his facial expressions, the way he wiped his mouth with the back of the hand every time he took a swig of the beer, crashing the can on his palm before tossing it aside. Fucking american cowboy, a perfect model of rough masculinity. They were on the field for a week and a half, which meant they didn't fuck for a week and a half, and after being home for three days without nothing happening, Numbers was just tired of that juvenile dancing around. He wanted that man between his tights. Now.

      It became clear Wrench didn't demand as much coaching as the women he has being with did when a hand on his thigh was enough.

The first times Wrench gave him a blowjob, Numbers was sure the rush of sexual tension breaking was what made him feel that was the best blowjob someone ever gave him. It became clear over time it wasn't only that. Wrench was just really good. And could be better, if they were on a hurry. Numbers wasn't, that night, but apparently Wrench wanted to go back to his game, so the things he did with his tongue got Numbers eyes wide open and he bite his mouth shut to contain the high sounds that came out on the barely three minutes it lasted.

Wrench shot both eyebrows up in a way that asked  _good?_ Numbers managed to smile and make a thumbs up.  _Good._

After nodding and smiling too, Wrench raised to sat on the couch and left his partner to pull himself together. It was fast, not much missed on the game. Not half a minute later, he was being interrupted again. This time, it was for Numbers coming to do the fair thing and return the favor. It lasted way more than three minutes, when he was the one doing it, but something about sucking him off and looking up to see Wrench taking turns at glaring down at him and back to the TV was hot enough for Numbers not to care. When Wrench put a hand on the back of his head and start pushing, hips rocking up and down so fast and hard it was like being punched in the throat, Numbers knew he was about to come and pulled away. He finished with his hand. Wrench didn't mind; he only found it amusing the time Numbers tried to explain it always ended on his beard and he didn't like that. Sometimes it was okay, but there is a right mood for it. Wrench seemed always up for anything, on those early months. And he did enjoyed more coming on Numbers' face or chest since he didn't let him do that often.

Numbers cleaned the couch with a rag before going to take a shower, and let Wrench know he was going to bed before leaving him to finish watching the game in peace. Wrench only waved a hand.

Sometimes, but not all the times, they slept on the same bed. For some reason, Numbers end up heading for Wrench's bedroom that night. He was relaxed, but not asleep, listening to the high noises his partner made in the quiet apartment without realizing how annoying it was. Putting the dishes away, throwing the empty cans in the garbage, taking a shower, going to the other room to find it empty and finally opening the door to his bedroom. The only quiet thing he made all night was climbing on the bed, making an effort to not awake his partner. But Numbers was awake, and he was ready to jump on him with a hard and sloppy kiss the first thing when Wrench got on the bed.

 _Again?_ Wrench asked in the low light, a smile on his lips. He smelled like soap and his body was warm from the hot shower.

None of them was in a hurry that time.

Numbers was sure the day Wrench asked him  _again?_ and he said _no_  would be day he lost his mind. Although he was aware he was the one saying "not now" most times, it was all that filled his mind that night and in another nights like that, when he looked up and all he could see was Wrench's face staring back at him, all he could feel was their naked bodies pressed together and he could drown on that unfamiliar feeling that he could just get used to.

Numbers shot a content laugh in the dark. He felt an elbow to his ribs and turned to see Wrench showing a palm to form a question.

 _Nothing,_ he answer.  _Just thinking. If someday we went broke, you should do this for money. No doubt I would pay you._

He meant it as a compliment. Maybe a weird one, but still a compliment. However, Wrench's soft lines suddenly changed to the usual scowl. Numbers frowned, confused, seeing him turn away and pull the covers over himself. After considering let it go, he threw cautious away and poked him three times to get Wrench to turn again. When it didn't happened, Numbers pulled him by force.

"What the fuck, man? Come on. What did I do?". It was pointless to talk, but sometimes he still do. When Wrench finally looked at him, Numbers repeated the question.  _What? You think I'm being about pimping you?_

 Wrench put his fingers together to form a _no_ , but didn't elaborate. Numbers kept staring at him and being stared back for a couple seconds. It hit him, then. He sat up and reached to turn the bedside lamp on. Wrench blinked a few times to the intrusive brightness.

  None of them enjoyed that long and strange talk, but once it was on the table, Numbers thought it was for the best to pull it fast rather than to let slowly unfold. It happened, for a while, and that's it. It didn't happen anymore. It wasn't nice. He was young, broke and picked the routine in prison for drugs and protection. When he was out and jobless, it was just fast money.

  Wrench told a story about the first real work he got after leaving prison, when a straight life still seemed like an option. He was in charge of cleaning in some family dinner, made minimal, had a room with those people. He wasn't the first ex-con they employed. The daughter was about his age and made eyes at him since day one. She wasn't pretty, but she was nice, and no one was nice to him in too many years, so they started a thing. Family didn't knew; the girl said they wouldn't understand, but Wrench thought she just fucked the other guys before him, would do the next and didn't want her parents to know. But this was fine. The fishy thing was the father. Wrench smelled something off with the guy, but tried to stay on the line, thought he was just suspicious about him and the girl. It wasn't that. One day, the guy starts staying late when Wrench is finishing cleaning, offers to help, walks inside his room uninvited, gets touchy. It isn't long before he does his thing. Said Wrench could keep the job and fuck his daughter if he would suck his dick. Wrench wasn't particularly good in lip-reading, but even that he could understand. Maybe the guy did this to the other men, maybe he thought it would be easier with him, it didn't matter. So he did it. Got angry when the guy finished. Didn't know why. He has done it before in prison, not a big deal. It felt like a big deal that time. He crushed the guy's face with his bare hands. Panicked, packed his things, left town, lived on the streets looking over his shoulders expecting the cops to be after him. No one came. It was when he started doing it for a shot of heroin. If he had to pick one, that was the shittier year of his life. Wrench would meet Bill four years later.

   _And what was the best?,_ Numbers asked, because he needed to be told a nice thing. Every time Wrench talked about the years they spend apart, it was shit. And he felt responsible. He wanted to get up, take a machine gun and exterminate all the fuckers who ever hurt that man. It isn't like it was nice now, because it wasn't, but at least none of them was alone and they could afford a living - not a regular, nice, straight living, but a living whatsoever, which is more than they would hope for ten years ago.

  Wrench glared at the ceiling for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. He smiled. Gave him a light kiss on the knee and moved a hand through his leg before answering:

   _This is._

 __ Shit, he could have exploded. Numbers laughed and moved to straddle him, leaning down to an open mouth kiss. Wrench embraced it, put both arms around him and made red lines on his back with the tip of his strong fingers. Yes, he could get used to it.

Wrench was in the kitchen when Numbers dragged himself out of the bedroom, scratching one eye, trying to appease the fog on his mind left by the sleeping pills. His mouth was dry. Wrench had his back to him, cooking something. Probably pancakes. He only knew how to make toast, waffles and pancakes. Numbers walked over the light switch, getting the sweatshirt over the chair before flipping the thing on and off a couple times. Wrench turned.

He was cutting carrots. Is it time for lunch already?

 _It's freezing in here,_ said Numbers, pulling the zipper up and walking as moving his hands over both arms to warm himself. He didn't found his clothes, only Wrench's boxer shorts. The elastic was loose and it slid on his waist. Numbers pulled it back up. He heard the dryer working somewhere in the apartment - so that's where his clothes went.

_Next time you sneak on the balcony to secretly smoke, try not leaving the door open._

"Shit", he talked to himself and covered his eyes with a hand.  _My bad._

There's no answer, the other just gives him the kind of look they both knew it meant _you bet it is,_ then turns his back to take care of those carrots. Numbers stops a few feet away and stared at Wrench's back. They were full of scratches, ugly purple and blue bruises forming over the pale skin mainly next to the hips and where he dislocated a shoulder. One arm was put to a sling to rest. It wasn't broken, but should be hurtful. Numbers made sure it was in the right place, pushing hard until he heard a pop. It always amazed him Wrench's ability of keeping himself quiet through great amounts of pain. Numbers bitched like a motherfucker when something hurt.

Wrenchjumps when suddenly there's two arms around his waist.

 _What are you making?_ Numbers asks, both hands in front of Wrench's chest. He has to get on the tip of his toes to place a kiss on the back of his neck. Wrench ducks. 

 _Stop._  One of his hands get high enough for Numbers to see, and he pulls both shoulders back to push him off. Numbers frowns, clear in his expression the displeasure with the treatment, but moves away. He forgot for a minute Wrench is an asshole when things go bad on the job.

He didn't got hurt often. Wrench was too meticulous about everything, too good on his job. Numbers is normally the one being stabbed, shot or thrown from second floor windows. When it's Wrench, he would stare at everything like he wants to take revenge against the world. Numbers tried to stay out of his way in times like this.

_Quit the weird patronizing attitude or I will beat it out of you. We talked about this._

"Alright, alright. We did". They did, after the assignment where Wrench shot their only eye witness because the guy broke a chair at Numbers back. Their knuckles were sore when they finished talking about this, both tired and bleeding, sitting on the floor in a trashed motel room thinking this will not work out if they couldn't follow the only ground rule: boundaries.

There's one other rule: they can do whatever they want once they stopped. And they would stop. There's money hidden in some places, plans being made at late nights when things are good, calm, comfortable and they grew used to it. There's no date, but there's plans and money and a shared feeling when they held each other close.

The coffee is cold. Numbers throws it away in the sink and gets some ice tea from the fridge.

 _We are out of bread_ , he says.  _What kind of people don't have bread in their house?_

 Wrench dropped the knife.  _Lazy_ _morons_ , he says, and Numbers snorts.  _Lazy morons who remembers buying hair spray and a new cellphone, but not bread._

  _Did you forgot to take the stick up your ass when you woke up this morning? I didn't buy a new phone._

 _No? So what's that?_ The knife is pointed to the counter, his eyebrows up and mouth pulling to the side in that smug smile he always has when knows he just won an argument. Numbers rolls his eyes in response. Is not dignified that he has to keep hold of the boxers he is wearing while walking to take the box, that is pushed over the sink next to Wrench's hand.

Just because he knows it annoyed the shit out of him that he would eat uncooked food, Numbers grabbed a handful of those sliced carrots and sat at the table to eat them.

  _Happy thirty springs, asshole. The cellphone is for you._

 __ The smugness was gone, his face all wrinkled with suspicion. He looked at the box, but not even touched it, like he is waiting for it to explode in front of his face as if Numbers is some kind of cartoon villain. When he finally says something, Numbers could only heavily sigh.

  _What would I need a cellphone for?_ And he is not thirty, and this is not his birthday, but he's not expecting Numbers to remember.

  _This is one of the new ones that send text messages. You can text people._

_The only person I could send messages to is you, and I'm already with you all the time._

____ "I don't know, man! For fuckssake! Just...", Numbers ran both hands to his face this time, resting his elbows on the table. He looks at Wrench for a long time, daring him to be even more annoying.  _Maybe you forgot to tell me you want diet coke when I'm out for groceries? You can text the neighbor when I'm out for a bootie call and cheat on me more easily? Or you still don't like pussy except when you're being one?_

_What do you mean by cheat? We are supposed to be exclusive?_

There's a moment of quiet. Numbers open his mouth and breaths in to say something, but gives up when he figures he didn't know what was it that he was going to say and closes it. His teeth bites his cheek, tongue and lips. He feels like throwing a knife, he should have gotten the knife instead of the carrots. When he bites one slice with exaggerated force and keeps saying nothing, just staring, he sees it. Wrench's hard, angry, inflexible face breaks in the corner. He is holding back a laugh.

Numbers flips him a finger.

 _Your face!_ He laughs so hard is like he just pulled the prank of the year. Numbers eat his carrot and makes a clearly forced smile, holding the finger up as Wrench proceeds to mimic the face he found to be so funny.  _You really fell for me, didn't you? Embarrassing! Grow a life._

"I swear to  _God_ I will cut your dick off someday, Wes".

_You will not. You like it too much._

"Oh, now you can lip-read just fine? Perfect".

He walks closer and leans in to place a kiss on top of his head, but Numbers push him away with an elbow. Wrench is laughing. Numbers tries to hold a serious face, but he can't stop a short smile. Wrench goes back to cut the vegetables; a tomato that doesn't look quite fresh, some onions, weird looking potatoes. He was right. Somehow, Grady did really fell for Wes.

It wasn't long ago Numbers noticed how much. Somewhere around last may. That bad job he needed sleeping pills to be left in piece. And it was not an easy thing to come to terms with.

Before that one, it has been forever since he was last shook by anything. He doesn't get shook anymore; a part of him never really did. But there's just some things, some times, some memories.

The job was supposed to be easy: find leverage on a guy they need to move some papers. Everybody has something. They left the target sleeping in his bedroom and went to quietly search the house. The pairing split to do ir faster, but still had each other in sight. The guy was not found of doors, so you could pretty much see everything from any place. It was a weird horror movie glass house in the middle of the woods. It gave him the creeps the moment they stepped on it.

Wrench was going through the drawers of the home office desk, able to see Numbers messing around in the closet on the corner of his eye, but not paying attention. He barely registered Numbers had got up, concentrated in doing his search right, until it happened. The smell. Powder. Gunshots. Wrench ran to the bedroom, to where saw Numbers enter just a second ago, pistol in hand, and was ready to shoot anything that moved inside of that room when he saw the end. Numbers was unloading all his gun's ammo on the bed. Wrench watched the last two shots, the animal fury on his partner's face as he kept pushing the trigger over and over again, even when nothing was coming out anymore. It lasted maybe thirty seconds, maybe more. Numbers was visibly shaking.

He didn't know what was that about, so stayed out of the way, remembering the last time with the rat they were supposed to protect.

Numbers lowered his arm after a while. He told Wrench they could leave the body, he would call Fargo tomorrow, don't worry about that, and walked out of the room. The front door was banging when Wrench walked out of the bedroom, the light of their car already running illuminating the house interior and the trashed closet. Slowly, daring himself to intrude, knowing this was probably a terrible idea, Wrench dragged himself over the closet. He looked for a couple seconds before understood what was he looking at on those pictures. His breath was held thin.

Later, in the car, it was a fight he didn't win to stop looking at Numbers at the same time as it was a struggle to look at him in the first place. None of them said a word. Numbers was driving like a mad man. He usually don't drive.

On their motel room, Numbers stormed to take a shower. Wrench sat on his twin bed, staring at the wall, a mix of things he didn't even know where to begin to cope with eating him inside, not reasonable enough to take even his coat or boots off. He either knew how many time spent there looking at nothing, but eventually Numbers was out of the bathroom. He had his pants on, but not zipped, and a white cotton tank top that didn't hide half of the fur on his chest. Wrench watched him and felt a wave of things he hasn't felt about that men since he became too familiar with his presence. He was crushed by it. Numbers sat on his own bed, side by side with Wrench's, but not looking at him, not knowing of Wrench's wet eyes, and continued combing his hair, too long at the time.

Wrench got up and walked towards him. Even when he sat on his side, Numbers didn't seem to acknowledge his presence. He did moved when Wrench touched his shoulder, shoving him off, and did the same to the kiss placed there afterwards. When Wrench didn't take the cue to stop and kissed his neck, he was forced to push his chest and look his way.

_Not now._

Their eyes met and stayed on one another's. Numbers' where tight under those thick eyebrows and frown, staring at Wrench, daring him, then opened wide when the other moved fast to strongly grab his arms and thrown him on the mattress. Wrench kissed him. He felt him struggle, kicking his stomach, trying to push him off by the shoulders and head turning away from a tongue licking his lips. He knew Numbers was shouting something. Wrench moved up, using the weight of his body to keep him in place as shoving a hand down his chest to grab the front of his pants - he wasn't hard. There was a moment where Wrench couldn't push his tight pants down and had to look to what he was doing, and Numbers used this moment to press a hand on his face and push it off of him. One of his fingers found Wrench's eye by accident. It was not an attempt to blind him, just a random stumble. Wrench groaned and pulled back, instinctively doing something to protect himself from the assault. Numbers was getting up fast, so Wrench's elbow hit his nose. He howled, head being shoved aside, and by the time Wrench opened his watery eyes Numbers was standing at the foot of the bed, eyes wide, holding his nose and bleeding all over the place.

Wrench got up too, lifting a hand to ask if he was okay, but before he could sign, Numbers took a long step back.

Wrench stopped.

 _Sorry_ , he said. Numbers kept staring without a blink, a hand red with all the blood dripping from his bleeding nose.  _I was trying to help._

"BY PUNCHING ME?!". His teeth were a mess when he shouted, like he was eating blood. He spat on the floor.

Wrench wanted do reach again, but was afraid it would only make things worst. So he didn't move, and watched Numbers walking backwards towards the door, not daring to turn his back to him, not trusting to take his eyes away.

 _Where are you going?,_ he asked, watching Numbers quickly put on his coat over the thin undershirt.

"Don't you fucking move!", he shouted back, sticking his feet on the boots and not even tying them up or cleaning the mess on his face. "Stay where you are!" Blood flowed bad when he moved. Wrench preferred to think that the fact that he was hushing himself to get out of that room was because he was too angry, not scared, but something about the wolf of a man he shared his life, job and bed with evaporated into a little broken thing in front of his eyes, and when Numbers got out and banged the door so hard an ugly painting fell from the wall, he thought he was never going to see him again.

But Numbers was there the next morning. When Wrench asked him, sitting on their car's hood at the motel's parking lot, not looking at one another in the face, why he came back after last night, he shot Wrench the most obvious look.  _Where else would I go?_

It was the first time he felt Grady was there because he didn't had anyone else, rather than he was there because he didn't want to be with anyone else. And it was fucking awful.

They didn't said a word in the three-hours long drive back.

For about a year, they have been sleeping together in the same bed when they are home. Sometimes they fucked, sometimes they didn't, sometimes they hold each other until they fallen asleep, sometimes they turned their backs and didn't shared the same blanket. But they always shared a bed. Numbers headed to the room that was his before, but now was more theirs, and Wrench didn't felt that it belong that much to him anyway as he lied down alone in a bed he hadn't use in about a year. Funny thing, it didn't felt so rough and uncomfortable before.

He woke up to the lamp on the nightstand being lit. Numbers was there. Wrench blinked a couple times, trying to shove the sleep away, and didn't dare to move as that man sitting on a dusty chair next to the bed watched him. A dark bruise was starting to show on his face. Numbers was frowning, because of course he was. A whole minute passed before he reached for his pants and took out a gun. He put it on the nightstand, dropped it, but let a hand there, close. It wasn't a treat to use it. It was a reminder that he didn't.

 _There's the thing_ , he signed after another whole minute where they just stared in the dim light.  _I love you. You know that. I know that. There's nothing I can do about it. I know who you are, the things you do, the things you did, and I still love you. I need us to do it together._  Wrench knew it wasn't the end of it and that he shouldn't interfere on the pause that Numbers left after those words, and he couldn't help but feel sorry that the first time Grady told him that was to make a treat. _I don't really care about the punch. You can punch me. You can throw things at me. You can call me names. You can stick a knife in my leg and it wouldn't change a thing. I rather you don't, but I won't care for long if you do  because you know I would give it back._  There was another pause, longer this time. _But you can't do_ that _._ Wrench knew what _that_ was.  _If you do it again,_ his face hardened. _I would probably still love you, but I wouldn't turn the lights on to wake you up. Do you understand?_

He shook his head.  _Yes._

Numbers gave a little nod and took the gun away, then he got up.

 _Move,_ he signed and walking towards Wrench. _I can't sleep without feeling you in the bed anymore._

Wrench pulled the blankets out so Numbers could come in. His old bed wasn't as big or comfortable as Numbers - no,  _their -_ bed was, but it would do for tonight. Numbers slid closer and reached for Wrench's hoodie, pulling down the zipper. He didn't thought much of it. It was a cold night, and for someone who lives in a constantly frozen State, Numbers didn't owe much warm clothes. He would, sometimes, try to fit inside Wrench's hoodies with him in bed. He wanted to warm him up that night, so he let him do that hoodie thing, but Numbers had other plans to keep warm. They kissed and keep kissing until Wrench realized they weren't going to sleep yet.

He didn't told him he loved him too, not even when Grady said it again and it wasn't a treat anymore, arms wrapped around Wes' shoulders as he slowly moved inside of him with a pace that wasn't a commonplace from their usual fast and rough sex. He was hoping to show it, his whole life being more of a visual than words kind of men. So he kissed every part of him and hold him on his lap between his arms to let him know this is how they should feel together.

They laid down under the covers, the light strong enough for them to talk if they wanted, but either wanted to say anything.

 _Who was it?_ , Wrench asked when he felt like he couldn't live with that question, and this night was probably going to be locked in that forbidden drawer with all the other things they don't talk about.

Grady was silent for a long time, but Wes knew he was going to tell him eventually.

_Why do you want to know?_

_I need to know. I don't want to know. Different things._

He seemed to understand that.

_Uncle J-A-C-O-B._

He thought he would feel better if Grady didn't say it was his dad, but he didn't. Uncle Jacob gave him socks for Hanukkah once.

_Do you want me to kill him?_

Grady snorted.

_I already did it years ago. I don't need you or anybody to save me. I just need you. Different things._

Wes put on his hoodie and wrapped it around them both, now thinking he understood a lot of things about his friend and tree-houses and impatient requests to run away, and he was relieved to know he was one of the things Grady always ran to, not from. He promised himself to always keep it that way, as rubbing his cold bare feet against his own in two pairs of socks.

 

_I'm buying groceries on my way back,_  Numbers told Wrench when he came out from the bedroom, tired of watching the other complaining about their place having nothing for him to cook with. Like he could even proper cook. Wrench was already annoying enough in that irritating injured state for him to give more reasons for bicker.  _That's good? How do you feel about B-A-Z-A-R-G-A-N for dinner?_

_Fine if you make it with tons of bacon._

Numbers finished his buttons before answering, a full grin on.  _You make a worst person out of me._

 _I don't think you need my help to be a shitty Jew._  To illustrate his point, Wrench pointed the ink on his partner's collarbone showing with the top buttons open, and complimented outlining the volume of what was probably a pack of cigarettes on his pocket.

       With a theatrical eye-roll, Numbers took the pack out of his pocket and threw it in the trash can. Wrench proceed drying the dishes with a cloth with the most content expression he ever saw in the face of a man cleaning a kitchen.

 _You may not believe me,_ _but this is not forbidden._

_So you can't take spoiled fruit out of the fridge on Shabbat, but you can smoke and have tattoos? I don't think you read the right book._

"You're probably right", Numbers sais as he put on the suit.  _Sure you don't want to come?_

Wrench shrugs. He hates Fargo meetings.  _Just tell me what happened when you come back._

And Numbers doesn't enjoy the experience of Fargo meetings either, but some couldn't be avoided. At least one of them has to go and it wasn't in the Syndicate's main concerns to hire an interpreter, so it ended being always him. He was sure Wrench could figure out if he wanted, but suddenly he was okay with pulling the deaf card if it got him out of stuff.

Their kind of employee were usually discouraged to make social appearances, but once in a while they met outside specifics assignments ground. It could be several different reasons, from a new rule to be followed by everyone, to some big operation happening, or the kind of job that would move a lot of them and couldn't be talked over the phone. They usually didn't touch much on Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench's dynamics; the pair worked good to things that needed to be done fast and discreet, and this kind of things don't take much talking. They are called when the talking was already done.

Wrench particularly hates meeting with other assets even more than Numbers. One of the last times he went to something like that, an asshole was smug enough to comment on Wrench being _under-dressed_ for the restaurant and _disrespecting_ their meeting. They ended having to pull him off of the guy. Numbers watched the other assets pulling Wrench out while sipping his whiskey on his expensive suit, not a care in the world. Later, he told Mr. Columbine the next time he was feeling jealous about Mr. Wrench getting paid so much more than him, he should just look himself in the mirror. Consider that a free sample. His nose never looked quite the same.

For Numbers, he could tolerate the whole dick measuring routine better. He grew into it. It was a power-game, and Wrench was never much of games - maybe that's why they still do shitty jobs from time to time. It was entertaining to have Wrench's comments on Mr. Pin ugly shoes, or like Mr. Sniffer should sniff himself and take a shower for once, but it could get messy. They always knew they were trading inside jokes about them. No one ever said anything about it to their faces, but Numbers knew it as much as he knew them both were also a joke for the rest of the syndicate. Once, he came back from the bathroom of the strip-club they sometimes met at to overheard a group of them having fun at their expenses. It was fine, they could talk, they could bet on who was the woman in their relationship - and of course they thought it was _him_ , fucking queer Mr. Numbers, as if Mr. Wrench wasn't actually the gay one - or how they must get off in sticking the barrel of a gun in each other's assholes. It disgusted him, but didn't worried him. Until it was only jokes and they didn't knew, it was fine. Numbers put on a shark smirk and it got them silent in no time. Worked like a charm.

The only thing that got under Numbers' skin was having eyes around the table turning in silent judgment every time he moved to tell Wrench what was going on in the meeting. Fucking assholes. If they joke about that, Numbers had no idea. They didn't in front of him, not after he smashed that new guy's face in the elevator when he bumped into Wrench, shouted some insult at him, got mad when the other didn't answer because he didn't saw it. Someone told him the guy was deaf. Numbers usually ignored the office staff, but he was entering the elevator when heard the guy saying something wicked. He stopped the door from closing with a hand. And Numbers often threatened people with putting their eye out, but rarely got to do it. That evening he did. He was pretty sure no one was joking about that.

_Do you want something from the city?_

Wrench though for a moment, and he looked like someone's husband with that apron on.

_A new hunting knife. I left mine on that guy's skull. It got stuck._ Someone's really scary husband.

 _Alright._  Numbers grabbed his gun and his keys. He walked over to the kitchen, where Wrench was moving over the counter a plastic bag with coffee and some of the soup he made with those vegetables he was cutting earlier. Numbers wasn't going to be back until the next day and he hated to eat in the road to Fargo. _I was_ _thinking_ , he put a piece of gum on his mouth, a habit picked every time he was trying to quit smoking. Wrench crossed his arms and waited for him to finish. _What are you going to do this weekend?_  Numbers leaned on the counter, an nonchalant expression on his face when he signed: _We could disassemble the bed on the other room._

Wrench shot both eyebrows up.

 _We could use the_ _space to build a descent hideout in the apartment. I could have my darkroom back._

Wrench didn't replied nothing, just watched Numbers face closely. Something cracked in there and Wrench could only broadly smile, which made the other angrily put both hands up in a  _what?!_

He shrugged as if _nothing_ , but kept smiling like that until Numbers gave up and smiled too. As far as invitations go, that openly was one.

  _Okay_ , Wrench finally said. _But I don't know if I can this weekend._ He pointed at the arm on the sling.

 _I can_ , Numbers replied, and Wrench arched an eyebrow.

_You don't know how._

_Even better for you, you could be there whining about me doing it wrong. Your favorite activity._

       Maybe he couldn't make a bed from scratch, as Wrench claimed he could, but he wasn't a broken man. He could do handy things. They agreed to wait and see what they could do once Numbers got back from Fargo.

Mr. Jergen was talking about the new distributor they all needed to get familiar with when Numbers cellphone buzzed. He grabbed it from his inside pocket, frowned to the line of numbers he didn't recognize, and opened it to see a groceries shop list. He typed a fast answer saying to Wrench he hadn't forgot the goddamn bacon for those bazargans, and that he was actually pretty good at disassembling old beds.

* * *

 PART XIII

_You can't be a wolve and expect to live like a men_

* * *

 

Mr. Fingers is there, all big smiles and swagger, a thirty something years old man that always made Numbers think of rats. His hair is that dirty dark gray color and he has their curious eyes and big yellow front teeth. It doesn't help that he dresses all in fur. He's a slim guy, it shouldn't be a problem to Mr. Numbers on a fight, let alone to Mr. Wrench. Shorter than both of them. They said he was really good at making people disappear.

The man doesn't wait for an invite that wouldn't come and just slides himself to Numbers' side on the table.

"Mr. Numbers, Mr. Wrench, what a strange meeting!", he says in a cheerful tone, and he doesn't smell bad, but is a involuntary movement for Numbers to shift far away and hold his breath. "You know, I recognize the" one finger that was all bones pointed at Wrench, then tickled the side of his own face to mimic the mutton chops. "But you! To be true, I though you slept and showered in a suit". 

"It doesn't seem much practical to me", Numbers replied, a non-friendly smile on his lips for only a second. Suddenly aware of his under-dressed self, he move to arrange the buttons of the knitted cardigan and ran a hand through his natural hair. That morning was too chaotic for him to care about how he looks, having being running around all week calling in contacts and digging the little money they have saved so they could pay for the tonsillectomy and don't go bankrupt. Sleeping in the car in Benedict was a probably a bad call, since he almost didn't make it in time to drive Wrench to the hospital and could only take a quick shower. It was a simple procedure, but it surely didn't help that they waited until Wrench couldn't handle the pain anymore to go to a doctor. Numbers knew it was bad when he asked for it. Wrench never admits vulnerably, like he thinks Numbers buys he's Superman.

"I haven't seen you two around for some time, though you may be dead or something. Or is this some early retirement thing?".

Oh, he got what he meant with that smile and the way he looked at both of them before stopping on the single waffle sundae with two spoons on it.

"No", he replied, smiling, feeling the shape of the gun on the coat he moved to an easy reach distance when looked through the cafe window and saw a fellow hitman watching them across the street. Even still under the effects of some anesthesia, Wrench's face is hard and he pulls his posture up. It doesn't look like the same man who whined all the way about the doctor saying he should eat some ice cream. It was the kind of childish behavior Numbers didn't tolerate easily, but the child Wes was would probably be punched in the face if asked for ice cream, so a part of him couldn't stop smiling. This is the shit he gets for being nice. "We just aren't enthusiastic about making a scene", Numbers says to Fingers.

"I see". Leaning an elbow on the table, the man glared at Wrench, who didn't made a move since the uninvited co-worker entered their favorite cafe two blocks from their apartment. He hopped the girl was her usual lazy self and didn't come to take a order. She was in college, but still worked there on weekends. Wrench liked her, he tipped good. There was a brief laugh and Mr. Fingers said: "It's true, I don't think you two are the type who would enjoy a stipclub with the guys".

"Yeah?", Numbers squeezed his eyes, shifting so they would be equally facing each other. "And why is that?".

 "I just can't picture this guy having a good time. Or at least not with a beer and a lady. You two seem to me having a good time on your own, right? Am I interrupting your day off?".

 _What does he want?_ , Wrench finally asked the question flying around his expression. The guy looked at him, amazed with the conversation occurring right in front of his face that he couldn't follow.

"What are you doing here?"

 The waffle sundae is huge. Marshmallows, chocolate syrup, fruit that barely seems fresh; just name it, it's there. The thing gave Numbers' a toothache even before he got tired of only watching and asked the waitress for an extra spoon. He got syrup on his beard. Wrench let him know that, but trying to clean himself with a hand only spread it more. It was then that Wrench took a napkin and licked the paper as he would do with a cloth. Numbers was too intrigued by the weird gesture to move when the other reached across the table and swiped his face with the spit dumped paper napkin. It should have made him angry, but somehow it didn't. He let Wrench dig the last pieces of paper that stuck on his beard and lean back with a  _there._ When Numbers looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden gesture he was sure was caused by the remaining effects of anesthesia slowing Wrench down, he saw Mr. Fingers.

 He was being quite clear he saw that.

 

 They were on their living room's apartment. Wrench was sitting, face swallowed because of the recent operation. Numbers' was swallowed because of rage. He ran his fingers through the shelf.

  _What would you do_ , he said to Wrench when he finally turned around, a portrait of anger.  _If you had the information he just has on us?_

 __ Wrench was slower than his usual sharp self, but not that slow. He was thinking about this question for the moment Mr. Fingers walked into that cafe and through the whole drive home. He was weighting the variables that were generally bad for them. He was making plans he didn't like. He was cursing his tonsils.

  _File it for leverage_ , he answered, even though they already knew that. It's what they have being scared of for most part of their odd thing. It's what they forgot once they grew too comfortable with their stuff and their routine and each other and home.

  _Do you want to owe that guy? Thrust him with this?_

 __ There wasn't a head shake, Wrench was still in pain for that, but the shade of green in his eyes told Numbers they were on the same page.

  _Mr. Fingers has to go._ Numbers said.  _We have to go, too._  

  _I know_ , Wrench answers. And this apartment has to die with Adam and Ethan.

  _They will investigate. If we are lucky, they will send us. If we are not, they will send someone else._

 __I know,__ Wrench said again, hands coming down harder.

  _We can't leave any witness. They knew he was here on an assignment, they will ask questions. No one can put us and him in the same place._

 ___I know_ , he said again, one sharp gesture, mouth made into a line. Numbers' fingers were tapping the shelf nervously, his eyes so dark Wrench could loose himself in them. It took some time for him to state the obvious thing none of them wanted to say.

  _The girl saw us._

 __ Wrench didn't flinched. He knew that, too. Years of bad service, and she had to be helpful today of all days. She even said their names - or the names she thought were theirs, and the names Mr. Fingers was astounded to hear as if he believed it too. It wasn't theirs, but it was close enough if they stayed there. So, after a while where they both just stared at each other on the apartment they made their home for many years, Wrench moved his hand again.

  _I know._

 

 They've being there before.

 Numbers can't take that thought out of his head as the  _VACANCY_ sign gets bigger. The motel is that color he has no idea if one should call red, orange or brown, so he just call it ugly. It could have being either of them at some point, now slowly morphing into another, but not quite there yet. Why so many shitty motels would choose this particular color is a mystery to him. Maybe they want you to feel uncomfortable, constantly reminder you can't have things your way or be pleasant because this is not home. A non-color to a non-place.

 Nowhere is home anymore.

 They've being there before.

 What makes him remember is the dog. The rhodesian ridgeback's fur is the same color as the motel's front; he walks to Wrench in slow hesitant steps, being encouraged by the hamburger flashed in front of his nose. Last time it was a sausage, from a hotdog he bought from a cart upfront. The cart is nowhere to be seem, but it's too late to be selling hotdogs anyway. Wrench share his meal with his old friend and pat him in the head. Numbers watches them through the reception window, thinking he would take a picture of this if he handn't left everything behind, until his thoughts are cut by the staff showing up. It's the same receptionist.

 They don't have twin rooms in there, he knows it because last time they got separate singles. They always have twins when it's available. Last time they were there, Numbers was fairly disappointed to be handle two keys.

 It's being a few years, enough for him not to identify the place on a first sight, so Numbers asks for a twin. Maybe they have it now.

 Last time, they just had sex for the first time. It hadn't even sunk in yet and they were sent to an assignment. On their way home, with pockets full of money, Wrench was tired and proposed for calling it a night and go back the next day. Numbers was more on edge than tired.

 After four days on a cabin with no electricity, Wrench, another asset from Fargo and two men from an associate Syndicate, he was feeling his teen years all over again. And he was done with dodging Wrench's touch like he was some ill person, even if they were just pats to get his attention and eventually their hands touching that time he pulled the map Numbers was exterminating. But he was not going to say the sexual tension was worst, _God!_ , so fucking worst after they first fucked like two days ago, so he just sulked.

 Numbers was not sure what to expect when they stopped at a motel for the night in the ride from Fargo and back to their place. He asked for twins. They haven't any, so, fairly disappointed, Numbers got two singles. Wrench only nodded when he explained and handled him his key. They made plans to meet in the car in a hour to grab dinner. Numbers entered his room, sighed, banging his head to the door and left it there for several minutes before heading to take a shower. He was in the middle of it when someone knocked on the door. After a few curses, he managed to wrap himself in a towel, grab a gun, take the safety off, look through the window before going to the door. Wrench was looking. At the window, not the door. He was looking there because he knew Numbers and he knew Numbers would check before answering. He waved. Later, Wrench would be positive he hadn't put two feet in before Numbers was all over him. Numbers would say this was nonsense, it was Wrench who pulled his towel off as soon as that door closed.

 They still slept in separate rooms.

 "Do you have any doubles available?", he asks the receptionist.

 For a man who breaks people for a living and less than ten hours ago was cutting Mr. Fingers toes off to avoid identification, Wes could be really damn smooth sometimes. As the choosing dominant color of particularly shitty motels, how they end up like this is a mystery to Grady.

 Wrench finished the burger and was just sitting on the hood of the only car they could afford with the money they had. An old Buick Riviera. It wasn't in a good shape, but it had good internal space, was ideal for the discretion they need and at least Wrench was going to have fun restoring it. He was playing with the dog when Numbers approached. They walked side by side, not a single part of them touching.

 The room was big. Wrench was not surprised to see a double bed, but of course he wasn't. It was not a random coincidence, he knew where he was driving to.

 Their eyes met, and for a moment they just stared. There's something soft on his face Numbers is not entirely comfortable around. He takes a step forward. Wrench lick his bottom lip and lean down to let him rest their mouths together. Numbers was giving him a second, deeper kiss when felt his partner's hands on his hair. He pushed them off.

  _You were just touching that smelly dog. Go wash your hands._

 __ Wrench groaned, but moved away. Numbers sat on a bed with his bag, took off his shoes, scarf, jacket, and watched the other strip the endless layers he wore on winter before entering the bathroom. The shower starts running.

Getting comfortable on the king-sized bed, Numbers took a notebook and some stacks of money rolled in rubber. They had counted before, but he still does it again. Feels right taking time to do it proper now, when the danger is out of sight. If they did it right - and they did, they had to, this was the most important job yet -, everything will be fine. Now, he can do accounting, because that's what he does to breathe better.

Numbers knows he has never being particularly smart, or at least not book-smart like Wrench, but he consider himself street-smart, good at what they do and impressive when the subject is money. Math was the only thing he didn't fail in school. It was logical, predictable, controllable, easy. Even though he did went to a nice private elementary school, he gave up high school all together. Wrench had the will to learn, but hadn't the opportunity. Numbers had the opportunity, but didn't want to learn anything. Funny thing he is the one who made his way through a college education. He never finished it, but it was on the only thing he knows: finances. Wrench found it amusing, and it made him feel all weird inside when, sometimes, Numbers could swear he was somehow proud of him. He is not used to make anyone proud. So he writes down what they have to do to make their money last longer. He can't stop thinking about the shades of green in his eyes when they drove away. When they burned the pickup and the corolla. When they killed their old life. When Numbers shot that girl. He wants him to be proud again.

The bathroom's door open. Wrench walks out, drying his hair with a towel. He shot a brief look at Numbers on the bed before walking naked to his bag to find some clothes. Numbers is back to his notebook, counting things, adding some, dividing others. He dealt with a lot of money before, in his days as a booker. This isn't much money, but it's their money, so he double checks everything. It has to last until they find something. Somewhere. He doesn't dare wanting a place to call home anymore.

He has left places he called home before. He has burned everything to the ground more than once or twice. He did it so many times he forgot his own name until he used it, when they are fucking and in the heat of the moment they forgot they couldn't be someone. Burning everything felt different this time. There is no anger. Almost like he is okay with not having a home now. He got used to it.

Numbers looks up when a shadow spreads on the mattress. He is there, looking down at him, a towel still around his shoulders, any clothes hiding his board body or his half-hard cock.

They are both tired from those past few days and all the driving, but the look Wrench is giving Numbers at the foot of the bed is something different. It's being some time since they last looked at each other like that, with an urge, a need. Numbers put the notebook on the nightstand, shove the bag and money off the bed and opened his arms.

Wrench came like a mountain, crushing on top of him so hard his lungs complained. His skin was burning hot, but it could only be that Numbers was freezing cold. It's being a long time since they last kissed like that, too, with mouths open wide and hands grabbing. He wanted to stay on that kiss for a moment, make it last, but Wrench had more instant demands.

They managed to strip Numbers down with combined effort and Wrench sat on his tights, moving so Numbers' cock was rubbing against his crack, to what the other exhaled a long breath. Wrench didn't smiled, teased or mocked, as he always did when Numbers got that eager the moment he realized this is one of the times Wrench demands to be fucked. He sat there, coaching him to full hardness, eyes locked, staring at him like he was the most luxurious thing he's ever seen in life. Those green eyes that he could swear had more shades of green than it was reasonable for a person to have shut tight the moment he start lowering himself on it.

There was a gasp when Wrench pushed the head inside. There was a bigger gasp when he kept pushing and his brow furrowed in pain.

"Hey!". It's being a few moths since they last did it like that. "Wait, man. I think I packed lube on my bag. Let me jus-".

Whatever he didn't see his worry or ignored it Numbers was not sure, but Wrench pushed him down when he tried to get up. More forceful than it would be necessary, he was crushed by his partner's weight back on the mattress and kissed shut. Wrench's mouth on his was so strong when he pulled apart, it tasted like iron. Numbers couldn't hold back a moan when he kept pushing down. There was some water on Wrench's eyes. His moan was way higher than any sound Numbers was making. There was just something about Wrench's voice when they were like this, taking out reactions from the man who was silent all the time, like they were sharing a secret.

It was hard to tell if he was hot or in pain.

He moved faster, harder, shameless moaning to him with each push and stroke. Numbers moved his hands over his torso, Wrench putting both of his on his knees, leaning back as showing himself, letting him watch and touch all he wanted. It was all there for him. Numbers grabbed his ass, tights, chest, arms, everything he could reach, and bite his own lips before pushing up to bite him, licking the sweat off his skin. He wanted to hear him again, so pushed himself up. Wrench did that high sound he loved. It was too low and too brief. He wanted more, wanted to make him feel like riding a fucking unicorn or some shit. Wanted to make him feel good like he makes him feel.

Numbers flipped them over, coaching Wrench on his fours, and kissed his lower back and shoulderblades. When Wrench looked to the side, the impatience on his face showed. Numbers told him how good he looked like that. Wrench smirked.  _Fuck me_ , me signed.

 So he hold his hips and did, pulling him back in the same movement to meet his trust. That was it. That was the sound he was looking for. On the second trust, Wrench grabbed the sheets, a guttural sound replacing that unconscious sharp moans. The cry was back on the third, when Numbers tried a new angle. He hold the headboard, reaching behind to grab Numbers' hips too, pushing him into keep going. Numbers pulled his hair, hard, and a hiss was heard. Wrench showed he liked that by pushing his ass back in a faster pace, that only got harder when there was teeth pushing into flesh on his shoulder. A slap left a red mark on his ass. Numbers hold him still by the hair and hips, part because Wrench got off on it, part because he needed the grip not to slip out of him with the force Wrench was fucking himself on his dick. He was not setting the pace anymore, he was just there behind him, holding him in whatever that was. The fucking was all Wrench.

 Numbers closes the grip on his hair he had softened and turn his head so they're looking at each other. Wrench's eyes are dark green. He wants to tell him dirty things to make him come to how they feel together, but there's no need. He comes to their eyes locked. His body shook, hands into fists on the bed and hips pushing back so hard Numbers could just let himself orgasm too. He still needs a few more. Holding him still, Wrench already done, tired, panting, Numbers keep the pace until he's coming too. It's a short one, but is intense.

He makes himself stay inside, moving in and out in lazy, nice trusts, until he's softening. Wrench lie down, Numbers on top of him, dick still up his ass. A kiss on he back of the neck, different from the fucking, but similar to the last years they spend together, seals the end of it. Numbers pulled out and rolled over. Wrench lied on his back.

 Movement made Numbers open his eyes again and look to his side. Wrench was cleaning the cum out of himself with the towel.

  _Sorry_ , he signs once Wrench gave up and threw the towel away. He needs a shower.  _I couldn't stop_ _._ He hates when Numbers come inside of him without a condom, but that time he doesn't seem to mind and just shrugs, like telling him not to worry about it.

 Numbers closes his eyes again, and when he is back to opening them Wrench has his back on the headboard, eyes on the ceiling, a cigarette on his mouth. He bought that in the last gas station, and Numbers thought it was for him, but seems like a lot of things tonight are for Wrench. He roll on his side and watch him, and as soon as Wrench notice he's been watched he looks back. He smiles. Numbers can't fucking believe he was just inside that man.

 He sits up too when Wrench offers him the cigarette. He's trying to quite for years. Numbers take a drag and let himself enjoy it the longest he can before giving it back. 

  _What was that about?_ he asks, and Wrench frowns.

  _If you forgot what sex is, I must be doing a terrible job._

Numbers laughed and put his hand on Wrench's thigh, closing the grip and moving it up and down his leg.  _You know what I mean,_ he said.

Wrench shrugged again, taking a new drag. He let the smoke out on the corner of his mouth, lips shut the other way, a true cowboy, and leaned in to a kiss. When they broke apart, Numbers was panting and thinking he really should stop smoking if this is how homeless sex is going to be. Just imagine what it would be like when they had to spend the night on that shitty Builk as soon as they money ended.

It was then as clear as day. They didn't left home. This is home.

 _We should buy a cabin_ , he told Wrench, who put an eyebrow up and other down, and then snorted.

 _You want to live in the woods?_ He put the cigarette out and lied down, hoisting himself up by the elbow and pulling Numbers to do the same. He lowered himself on the bed too, spreading comfortably.  _We even have money for that?_

_We have enough._

Wrench pulled his messy dark hair back with a hand. It was the money they were saving for when they stopped. Numbers eyes were playful, the perpetual frown there between his thick eyebrows, but it wasn't a joke.

_I'm going to shave it tomorrow._

_The beard? I like it._

_I know. The hair._

_What?! You will not._ Wrench couldn't hide how entertained he was from the idea of Numbers sudden desire of shaving his head, which earned him a punch in the arm.  _You love your hair more than you love me. It's and unhealthy thing._

 _To be fair,_ he said with a hand, the other in the back of Wrench's neck spinning around a curl.  _I don't love you that much._

Wrench kissed him, just a light peck on the lips.

 _Let's get a cabin,_ he said.

 

* * *

 PART XIV

_You can't have one without the other_

* * *

 

  It was hot that morning. It's been a long time since Wrench breathed in a hot morning, used to North Dakota terrible winters. It's summer now and he's even sweating. He is not used to wearing a suit, the texture feels wrong on his skin. Drying the forehead, he takes it off and put the jacket on the same bench where he sits, a couple stairs up the ground. Some kids are playing baseball in the distance, but this part of the park is abandoned. A fence put him apart from the families.

  He sits there and watch, the box with the files he could find secured under his feet. He waits for a good half an hour until he sees a familiar car parking at the other side and a familiar suited figure coming out. He scans the area, looking, and Wrench raise a hand to be seen. Passing through the same whole in the fence Wrench had to crawl to get there, he can see Numbers cursing when a loose wire grab his leg and smiles.

   _What's with the box?_ he asks Numbers when he is closer, because he isn't supposed to have a box. Wrench was in charge of the box thing.

  Numbers doesn't answer, jut put it down. It was bigger than Wrench's box and much older. It seemed like something that was moved constantly over the years, with too much layers of scotch tape around it. It had a name on, written in big dangerous letters.  _GRADY'S_

 ___Yolsef told me they had a box with my name in the house_ , he finally said and arranged the glasses on his nose.  _We should get rid of it too._

 __ Wrench nods, looking at the big old box.

_Did you opened it?_

_No._

_Do you want do open it?_

_No._

__________ Wrench reached inside his pocket and took a pack of cigarettes out, the menthol ones Numbers likes. He bought it on his way to the park, once he finished pulling the school and hospital files. The last stop was the city hall. They would do that before heading back to their cabin. He threw the pack to Numbers, who grabbed in the air. He has being chewing too much gum that day, it was starting to get nastier than the cigarettes. And he deserved one. You only have one mother, and doesn't matter how long you spend apart, it will always be shitty they died.

   _How was it with Yolsef?_ Wrench was surprised they both remembered the sign name they had together for Numbers' brother two decades ago. They didn't talked about him since then.  _Was Adina there?_

   _No_ , he said in the middle of a drag.  _Just Yolsef. I don't think he wanted the others to see me. I don't think he wanted to see me, either. It was an accident, he wasn't supposed to recognize my face. It's being forever, I was a kid. How would I know he would remember? I almost didn't recognized him._

_You two look alike._

_We're Jews. We all look alike. But he recognized you, too._

____He saw as signing, outside the church?____ That one got Wrench's eyes out, but soon he squeezed them, a thoughtful expression on his face _ _ _ _.____ Numbers nodded.  _Then he didn't recognized me. He just guessed if you vanished with a deaf kid and show up with a deaf man, it's probably the same person._

 _Maybe I have a deaf fetish._ Wrench flipped him off.  _He said_ , Numbers continued after a while, stopping to take a new drag out of the cigarette.  _He asked if you were Wes, and I didn't said anything, but he already knew. He said it made sense. When we were kids, nothing could pull us apart. He said you can't have one without the other. I think he was somehow relieved._

 _You think he thinks I'm taking care of you?_ he asked with a playful smile.

   _I think he thinks you talked me into running away and this way he can blame you and try to hate me a little less._

 __ It made more sense, but Wrench liked his theory better. Anyway, Yolsef always hated Grady. Adina was the nice sister. He wished Grady could have some time with her, but maybe it was best if he didn't. They knew she had a couple kids, and they're not exactly uncle material. They're here for the legal papers with their real names on it. They're here to officially quite existing. And for Mom's funeral, but that ship sailed the moment Numbers grabbed his sleeve and told him he was not getting in the church. Wrench was angry. They drove all the way, they asked for not being disturbed by Fargo, they rented a suit for him. But then he sighed and nodded. Fine. They just sat on the Builk's hood and waited for it to end.

  Numbers was in this weird mood since Yolsef called to say their mother died. The brother wasn't even sure the number on her phone with Grady's name was real, but gave it a try just to threw blames on the shoulder his younger sibling. The asshole. He didn't know shit about Numbers, he didn't have the right.

   _Did you went to see your house?_ Numbers asked a cigarette later, already lighting a new one. Wrench made a gesture for him to come up and sit by his side.

   _Yes. It looks... Different._ By that he meant nicer. Cleaner. Happier. He saw a bike on the driveway that didn't seemed stolen.  _Look. Here._

 __ Numbers climbed the benches with difficulty, sat there and looked. A few scratches on wood under the paint, two letters. W and G. G had a lot more scratches on his side. It's where they used keep their baseball scores.

 _You were bad at this game_ , Numbers told him with a smile, offering the cigarette. Wrench turned it down, a hand up and head saying no.

 _I wasn't that bad,_  he said.  _Just didn't liked it. Plus, I was letting you win._

_Bullshit. Why would you do that?_

_Because the ball was yours. All the nice toys too. And I wanted you to be my friend. And I had a big crush on you._

_Bullshit!_ His hands clap together harder, the cigarette almost falling out of his mouth when he laughs out loud. "Come on, man, just admit that..."  _I was just better and you know. We were, like, ten years old? You didn't have a crush on me._

Wrench has that smug look on his face, doing a thing with his mouth and giving shoulders as if communicating for him he may be telling the true, he may be lying, it's up to Numbers to decide what he wants to believe. It earns him a eye-roll.

 _My mother always said every one of us would get married on that church._ Some time passed when Numbers said that. It didn't meant anything, it was just an information. He was just saying goodbye. They wouldn't go back there ever again.

 _You still can_ , Wrench answered.

_I don't think I can unless you turn into a Jewish woman or we are going to have tons of Jew funerals to attempt while we're in town._

It was Wrench's time to laugh. He got up and beat the dust away from his rented suit with a hand, then put on the jacket and signed for him to  _let's go._ Numbers raised too, taking a flask out of his pocket. He took a sip. Wrench was putting the two boxers none of them opened together, and Numbers dumped them with the remaining contempt of the flask, then dropped the cigarette on it. When the fire starts, he took the kippah out off his head and threw it in the party. They climbed down the benches.

 _We should keep the suit,_ he said to Wrench as they walked off.  _You look good in it._

_Did you see the price of that rent? Of course I'm keeping it._

Numbers smiled and their shoulders bumped together slightly as they walked back to the Builk. They looked back one last time before going in the car, to the park and the fire burning what's left in the world to Grady and Wes. Now only them knew. It was the only thing that matter.

Numbers entered the passenger seat, Wrench the driver's, and they were home, heading to the cabin they now leaved in, ghosts fading away on the road.

* * *

**Part XV | Epilogue**

Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers

.

  _"A thing is not necessarily **true** because a man dies for it"_ _-_ Oscar Wilde.  
This is a **true** story.

* * *

 

      Something taps him in the arm, two light and polite touches, and Numbers turns around to see it was a person. The woman shows him a cellphone with a message wrote on it's display.

_Good morning, sir. I'm deaf. Can you tell me how I get to Elm Street from here?_

      He doesn't think before looking up from the phone and signing:  _Sorry. Can't help. Not a local._

      The woman eyes widen, two big and expressive blue things on her tiny face, red on nose and cheeks for being mistreated by the hash and impossible cold winter wind. She smiles at him as if Numbers just handled her a flashlight on a dark forest.

 _I haven't met any other deaf person in town!_ Her signs are not as fast or precise as Wrench's. She probably didn't learn ASL as first language.

      "Oh, no", he said fast, and the woman's face changed into confusion as he put his thumb, middle finger and index together to form a  _no. I'm not deaf. My partner is._

People reacted differently at him referring to Wrench as his partner. At assignments or job related events, it worked just fine, people understood, not a big deal. In civil settings, it could be confusing. Normal people don't have  _partners_ unless they are cops, suits or married. Numbers always wear a suit, so it often pass at the second. Surprisingly, some guy asked for the first in California, just the only place he would be okay with being assumed the last one. They had a laugh when Numbers translated to Wrench:  _he think we are cops_. In the end, the guy was more nervous about the true than he would have been if they were cops.

      For the look the woman shot him, he knows what she went for. She was raising her hands to sign something when a familiar set of footsteps approached and Numbers looked up to face his  _partner_. Wrench was looking from one to another and carried that suspicious glare of his, one eyebrow up and other down. He too have a red nose, as must be the ears underneath that ridiculous combat hat with ear flaps. Arms occupy with two bags of groceries, he doesn't sign, but doesn't have to. Numbers knows that expression. He's waiting for an explanation.

 _She wants to know how to get to Elm Street._ Normally, he would go for something about the stupid woman being lost and annoying the shit out of him, or Wrench taking so long he found himself a hooker, but she being able to understand them took away all the fun. Wrench nodded as he understood, then changed one bag for the other arm to have at least one hand free.

_Keep going for three blocks that way and turn left._

The woman doesn't try to continue the conversation with the actual deaf person of that pair, but she's probably not to blame, with the way Wrench is looking at her. Numbers smiles, an empty pit on his eyes, and has been a long time since he last smiled in a reassuring way to anyone, a devilish thing taking place on his face. She thanks before leaving in a fast pace.

 _How do you know the way around this town?_ Numbers asks Wrench as they made the walk back to the car. The other looked down at the bags he was carrying, up again at Numbers and then to their car. He knew that look, too. Numbers rolled eyes before searching around the parking lot, scratched his beard while at it and came closer to put a hand inside Wrench's pocket and take out the car keys. He opened the Builk's trunk and Wrench sat the purchases inside.

 _I memorize the maps, since you make me drive_ , he finally answer, and shut down the trunk. That sound is so familiar Numbers flinched.

_I don't make you drive, you like to drive!_

      Wrench turned his back and starts walking away. Numbers was sure he picked up the habit of leaving people talking alone from him. A curse escaped his lips, but it was too cold to be annoyed outside, so he ran to the passenger seat to be annoyed inside. Wrench hasn't entered yet, standing outside stripping his heavy coat, so Numbers put the key he's still holding on the ignition to turn on the heat. The coat and hat are thrown on the backseat before Wrench got inside and closed the door. Finally the interior car properly warm up. Numbers is sick of the fucking North Dakota winter, he's sick of snowstorms, of freezing on his way to buy groceries. He's too old for this. His knee hurts when gets this cold.

      He's being stared at.

_What?_

_Why do you do this?_ Wrench's hair is pointing at three directions for being stuffed inside the hat. Numbers reach forward to arrange it, and when his hands are back he form another  _what_  with them.  _You know. Talking to people. We have an agreement, remember? We can't._

_I'm not making friends, she asked for directions._

      Wrench sighs and just glare. He can't understand it, the need Numbers has somethings of talking. Maybe he didn't understand because people never wanted to talk to him. Or maybe he did. Other time, when asking that same question, he got a less aggressive answer. It didn't make sense then, but it was starting to fall together. That night, Numbers glared at the forest outside their cabin for a long time before going back to Wrench and saying:  _"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound?'._ Wrench made a face before answering:  _"How would I know?"._ Numbers had stared at him, biting his lower lip.  _"You're right"_ , he said after a moment,  _"it doesn't matter"._

      He tapped Numbers in the arm.

 _Look_ , and made the sign with one hand over the other and both coming down the front of his chest.  _This means P-A-R-T-N-E-R._

      Numbers scoffed, a  _pfff_ following the mockery expression on his face.  _I know. Why are you telling me this?_

Wrench's eyes opened a fraction more than usual, like he wasn't expecting that answer. It took Numbers a moment to understand.

       _You saw that?_

He didn't used this sign Wrench showed with the woman asking for directions, but from that distance, didn't occur to him Wrench was able to read it. Truth is, he just wasn't thinking, his brain in automatic mode. The sign he used before was for a  _romantic_  partner. Like wife - or husband.

       _I didn't though you would take that seriously._ Also takes Numbers a moment to understand that one. Right, the thing they talked about on his mother funeral. He could say to Wrench it has nothing to do with that, that he's already referring to him this way for maybe a few years and started when someone came to him to translate for Wrench he's stepping on a their dog's leash, please move. They asked him to translate to his brother, Numbers correct he was his partner on those automatic brain mode and of course they would think of the last one. Numbers didn't mind and it just stuck with him.

       _We are doing this for ten years, I think I earned the right to call you whatever I want when you started washing my underwear._

_About that, you have to stop. I'm not-_

"Whatever, man". Not the cleaning fight again. For fuck's sake, anything but that. Numbers was sulking on his seat and looking out the window waiting for the car to move when he felt a touch on his arm to get his attention. "What now, Wrench?!"

 _Should I buy you a ring?_ The idiot has a big mockery smile on. He is torn into punching that face, kissing it or telling him off. But Numbers is determined not to take the bait.

_Are you sure you fixed the heater? It's freezing in here._

 The mockery smile was gone. Wrench made a heavy annoyed breathing before leaning in the panel to check if everything was right. It was. Numbers was just a cold bitch in every sense. He put the heat on maximum anyway, and the other took off the scarf. Wrench snorted.

  _Maybe you wouldn't be so cold if you hadn't your shirt open._ He always had, even on freezing temperatures, that tattoo flashing to anyone to see and think he was some kind of badass with restricted boundaries. Numbers threw an angry frown at him.  _Put on some warm clothes! What about the coat I bought you?_

_You mean the dead animal you dragged home?_

Wrench's nostrils flared.  _It was a really expensive coat, you know? And I'm tired of you freezing all day and stealing my covers and coats. I prepare myself for the winter, why should I pay for you not doing it?_

_I never asked for your covers or ugly coats. You give them to me._

_Yes, because you keep pushing your cold feet on my back._

"What?" Numbers shot a laugh at that.  _I never did this! You're making shit up now. Don't worry, next time we are send to freeze in a shitty cabin in the middle of nowhere I will not come near you or your coats with my cold feet._

_Just put warm clothes on! No one will freak if you aren't in a suit all the time._

"For chrissake, man!", he shouted before covering his face with both hands. Numbers let out a heavy breathe too, then turned back to Wrench.  _I look like a mob wife on that fur coat._

An amused mischievous glow came to Wrench's eyes, blue that afternoon, and Numbers knew he just put his partner in the catbird seat.  _Just don't_ , said Numbers, serious, letting him know if he ever made that joke he would get a black eye and the coat was going to be shoved up his ass. Wrench only smiled and turned to the front for a moment, but the look he shot before reaching for the gear said it as much as his hands would.  _You're my mob wife._

  _Who was calling? Fargo?_

Numbers shrugs. Wrench nods and reach for the gear again, already filling his mind with preparations. This time, is Numbers who stops. His hand is caught in midair by a firm grip. When he looks up, he sees the other put the sunglasses on, but something still flashes red on his body posture. Something off with the assignment? Will he continue bitching about the cold? Or is it something else?

Wrench asks Numbers what, but the other isn't looking his way. Instead, he face out the window and run a finger through the light mustache that don't match the dark of his hair. It made him crazy that Wrench bought the wrong color. Wrench thought it was crazy he would dye his beard over a few white hair. He didn't really mind Numbers getting old; actually, maybe he never looked as good as he does today. Not Wrench, though; he was fine on his twenties, had a firm toned stomach, big arms, looked good on a tank top, but it's all down the road once he starts getting close to the big forty. It's been years the only work-out he does is house maintenance, chopping wood, drilling wholes on ice to drop a body.

 _We shouldn't go,_  Numbers said, and only then looked back at his partner. He was still holding Wrench's wrist.

 _Sure_ , the other answered after a blinked, some uncertainty breaking on his stiff features.  _We can save money from the last one, postpone repairing the radio. We get the next. What do you want to do?_

_Not what I meant._

Those strong features break all the way, showing only uncertainty. Wrench shook the free hand between them with arched brows, confused, but once Numbers grip closed around his wrist he knew what the other meant. He meant the thing they stopped talking about years ago.

Wrench pulled back, put an elbow on the window and stared at his partner. Didn't know what to say. He asked  _why_ , then.  _Why now?_

Numbers answer is another shrug.  _Why not now?_ , he shoot back. Didn't said to him he was sure, for some time now, Wrench wouldn't. Not since they killed that girl. Not since he started acting like he was trying to hurt himself to balance some rightfulness in the universe. Not since Numbers was there only waiting for him to finish so they could just go home.

He knows it for some time now, that Wrench wouldn't stop, so he wouldn't stop either, but it was still frustrating to see him look so torn, avoiding his gaze, breathing heavy through his nose. Numbers took the sunglasses off and ran a hand through his face.

 _Forget it,_ he said, and put the sunglasses back on.  _Let's go._

Wrench put a hand on his knee.

_When do we have to give an answer? Are you thinking we got the call and fly, let them think we are doing the job and buy ourselves a few days?_

_Maybe._  There's a soft smile escaping on his lips, the kind of smiles he's still able to form only for Wrench. Fast he kills it.  _I didn't though it through. We could make it work. Don't have to be there until tomorrow._

Wrench nod. Not an agreement one, just an acknowledgment one. He's considering.

Numbers feels like he has just proposed for the man he has being calling his husband to random strangers for the past two years.

 _There where?_ he asks. Always so fucking methodical, observant, perfectionist.

 _B-E-M-I-D-J-I,_ Numbers answer. Wrench nods again. It's been a long time since they last set a foot on that city. He hates that place, the shittier dinners they ever being through where in Bemidji. Their coffee was dirt hot water. Fuck Bemidji.  _Do you remember H-E-S-S? Hot wife, ugly twins_ , his partner continue. Wrench remembers. The guy was the reason for their last visit; a full background check on a potential partnership for Fargo. They found a lot of shit, but nothing that would compromise the final handshake.

 _Guy was an ass_ , said Wrench, and Numbers laughed a meaningless laugh.

_Someone else share your opinion. The guy's dead. We have to find out who. The old head in the bag._

Detective work, hm? This was always a hard assignment, no wonder Fargo wanted their experienced asses on the job. Playing detective got a lot more difficult over time, other than getting easier, thanks to Numbers growing impatience to finish things. He is already tired of dealing with his partner and they didn't even took the job yet.

Wrench was still thinking when he felt a touch again, and looked down to see their hands being interlaced in the space between him and Numbers. He looks up. There it is, the usual impatience, wrapped around expectancy for the answer he would make. Numbers licked at dry lips. The cold mistreated him. He used to talk about moving to a warm place before they stopped talking about leaving.

This is not the kind of decision you make at a parking lot.

 _Let's to this,_ said Wrench, and let go of his hand after a tight squeeze to be able to sign better.  _We go home, discuss it, make a careful decision._

 _Fine_ , answer Numbers.

Considering is something, at least. Maybe they didn't stop right now, but they are considering it. He would take it.

Numberscouldn't help but smile as Wrench drove them off the parking lot and onto the road.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Psst, someone still alive to the end of it? I warned you it would be big!  
> Well, I choose to think they didn't go and everything is alright.  
> There is an illustrated cover for this fanfic, but I cut it off from the top because I wasn't that satisfied. It's a reference from how Part VIII ended. You can see it in my tumblr: https://atxnolasco.tumblr.com/post/171018797930/partnership-is-build-upon-broken-boundaries  
> .  
> Reference list:  
> PART I - They being separeted somewhere in their teens was inspired by _Dog eat Dog_ , by cptsuke.  
> Part II - Numbers' fake ID on Jerry Menuek it's a reference to his real name on _There Be Dragons Here_ and _Amongst the Green_ , by garfunkelandgoats.  
> PART VI - Numbers call Wrench's moves a C-A-S-A-N-O-V-A type of thing as he did on _The Palest Blue Light_ , by LadyDorian.  
> PART VII - It happens different here, but the whole situation on the awkward jerk off in the bathroom was inspired by my personal favorite _The Game Has Gone (To Other Spots)_ , by Sharksdontsleep.  
> PART IX - Numbers cook latkes for Wrench, as he did on the _Wolves_ series by ladysisyphus and Relvetica.  
>  PART XI - Numbers' likes Dire Straits because of the amazing _White Fire_ , by aRavenAndaDesk (hope to see the end of it).  
> PART XI - Wrench's eyes are fucking beautiful because one time Numbers said it while he was drunk in _The Bottle Imp_ , by I Am Your Spy (GroteskBurlesque).  
> .  
> Hope you enjoy this, it was quite a work, but I'm happy it's done! I apologize if there's lots of error. English is not my first language. Be free to point them out and/or tell me what you think.


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